Fantastic Show
by ElnaKernor
Summary: Chuck & Co go to New York after a long-lost fugitive from the dismantled Ring. Neal is taken away by a stranger and wakes up handcuffed to a chair. Peter wants his CI / best friend back. Coincidence? I think not.
1. Missing ( or not quite )

_Obviously set right after the season 5 finale of White Collar, what if it had been Neal's secret past that had come back to haunt him? I want to say it right away, there won't be any whump in this story, or no terrible torture, but Neal will get hurt. Only, in a super-awesome-spy-of-the-year way._

 _Will be 10 chapters long. All planned out already._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Missing ( or not quite )**

Chuck coughed. There was no apparent reason for his coughing, but it seemed like the right time to cough, and he had been aching to for some time already. And if coughing while on a video conference with General Diane Beckman of the NSA wasn't quite correct, even now that he wasn't part of the CIA anymore, and not properly under her orders, coughing after the video conference ended had to be alright. Right?

So, Chuck coughed.

Sarah's eyes immediately fell on him, as if he had been spluttering his guts out or something equally gruesome. Seriously, he had simply coughed, there wasn't a point in making a fuss out of it.

Or perhaps she was looking at him because of the mission the general had handed over to Carmichael Industries. Like, making sure he was alright with it. Possibly to see if he hadn't accepted the mission only out of a misplaced sense of duty, when he really owed nothing to anyone on that point, when said mission struck a bit too close. And, obviously, Chuck had agreed to do it for that very reason.

As it was, Beckman had just contacted them to say one of the very last Ring operatives, a former NSA agent, on the run since... well, since a long time, like five years or something like that, had finally been found and tracked down to New York City. The general had offered them the task to handle that survivor of the clandestine organization, since so much of what had happened to them was tied with it.

Chuck had accepted.

Perhaps he was experiencing a bit of a misplaced feeling about the rare runaways from the Ring and its kid sister organization, Fulcrum, who were still on the run, he had to admit that. Not to Sarah, though. If he let her see he was having second thoughts, she'd call Beckman back immediately and request that the mission be given to someone else, an actual team of Agents for example.

And Chuck wanted to bring down that fugitive.

After what the Ring had taken from him, there was no way he'd let anyone else handle it. It was personal, even if he hadn't ever met the NSA runaway, former captain Daryl Riggs, who was basically a lesser version of Casey, plus the evilness and minus the awesome friends to have his back, if the quick look at the man's file Chuck had been allowed to take was anything to go by.

Daryl Riggs hadn't done anything to Chuck personally – that Chuck knew of, anyway – but he had been part of the organization which had caused his father's death, amongst other things. It was personal.

It would the first time he'd go to New York, too. Weird. You'd think he'd have gone there at some point in his spy career, be it the official one or the private one. But no. Not even once.

Apparently Daryl Riggs had lived in New York for the last fifteen months, working as a nightclub bouncer under the name Dave Reeves. Only, he had recently been caught on the videotape of a small shop which had been robbed only fifteen minutes after he had left. One thing leading to another, a red flag had been raised, and soon enough it had been confirmed that Dave Reeves was a wanted fugitive, though he had nothing to do with the robbery.

Unfortunately the man had caught onto the threat, one way or another, and had gone off the grid since then. The NSA was fairly certain he hadn't left the city, but he would, soon, if they didn't find him first. Beckman had thought news eyes could perhaps find the clue the first team had missed.

Chuck turned to look at Sarah, right in the eyes, and gave her a winning smile.

"I've always wanted to go and see NYC, you know?"

Or perhaps it was a weak smile, because Sarah didn't look impressed. Like, at all. Oh well. Chuck had never been much of a liar, anyway. Though that wasn't a complete lie. It was even very true.

It just wasn't the main reason he had accepted the mission, and Sarah knew it.

Chuck's wife was kind enough not to pick up on his awkwardness.

"I'll call Casey."

Chuck's smile grew just a tiny bit more comfortable, which earned him a glare. Chuck tucked the smile away, wondering if his decision to go after the Ring operative was really upsetting Sarah that much. She usually was much more comprehensive, and much less moody – or not; let's not forget about that one time Chuck had been certain the Bartowski Curse had fallen upon him, and he had gone into danger completely alone. Or, better, let's forget about it. Yeah, let's do that.

He breathed deeply, and tried to ignore the gut feeling that told him he was making a choice which would have some rather important consequences. Alright. New York. A fugitive. A mission with Sarah and Casey – Morgan was on a holiday with Alex and their son, which had not been named Obi-Wan but Nathan, only thanks to the Coburns' death glare at the proposition. Obi-Wan Grimes did not sound very good, anyway – or so Morgan kept saying, when he was trying to hide his disappointment. Personally, Chuck was simply thankful Chewbacca Grimes hadn't been taken into account at all. Right, focus back on the mission.

Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Casey's girlfriend, the fearsome Gertrude Verbanski, was off stealing some highly secret weapon from a smuggler, apparently, so it meant Casey would be overjoyed to have some action. Everything would go well, and Chuck'd tell Sarah, "you see, there was nothing to worry about".

Yeah, right.

Because things always went well when it came to the Ring and Chuck. Even after its end, the organization had kept some influence over him, what with Decker, and with Shaw – again – and everything else...

 **oOo**

When Neal came back to himself, he could immediately tell something was very, very off. The simple fact that he had to come back to himself, instead of, you know, waking up normally, in his bed, told him enough. His hands tied behind his back with colf cuffs, sitting on an uncomfortable chair, and the dim light surrounding him only added to the impression rather efficiently.

Now, he had to figure out why exactly someone would abduct him. There was a list of people who might want revenge on him, which was a bit too long to be quoted, unfortunately. People he had robbed during his criminal life, people he had helped the FBI to bring down... And, last but not least, a good deal of spies and other highly dangerous, very powerful people with whom his alias Bryce Larkin had met at some point, usually thwarting their evil deeds by the end of the encounter – or, generally, leaving them very frustrated for one reason of another.

Neal wasn't particularly worried about that last third – roughly? – of the list. Absolutely no one knew that Bryce Larkin wasn't as dead as the rumors said. In fact, no one except Neal himself knew he was Bryce Larkin. Or that Bryce Larkin was him, however you liked it best. Neal had been very careful to keep the two identities separated, mostly because he considered "Neal Caffrey" his true self, while "Bryce Larkin" was a troublesome persona he'd rather not have linked back to "Neal", because it would endanger asolutely everything.

Had anyone known about Neal's little stint as a CIA agent, about the way he had passed himself off as someone else while becoming part of an intelligence agency, they'd surely tell him he was utterly insane. If the CIA ever heard of his little trick, they'd be quick to suppose he'd had some suspicious motives in joining under a false identity, and then Neal would probably end up in Guantanamo if he was lucky, or some black site from where it'd be very difficult to escape from if he wasn't. He was, after all, a criminal who had, kind of, infiltrated the CIA.

Because it was fun, sure, but it wasn't like they'd believe it. They had proof he was damn good at faking about everything, from a life to a personality. His word would not suffice to clear him.

The only way to link Neal and Bryce back together was by visual contact, actually. It wasn't as if he had changed his face to hide, but there were so many people in the world, he had been fairly sure such a connection would never be made. He might even have downloaded a virus on the CIA servers which basically told the databases to overlook Neal Caffrey when looking for Bryce Larkin, and _vice versa_. Oh, look, yet another federal crime he should be made accountable for.

So, unless someone from his past as Bryce Larkin had stumbled upon Neal in the street by pure lack of luck, there was no reason to think that this particular situation was because of his spy life.

Neal blinked heavily as the room came into focus.

It looked like an abandoned building, not exactly in ruins yet, but certainly deserted.

One thing, though: it seemed someone had had the interior renovated, condemning the windows as if to make it entirely airtight, filling the cracks in the walls, and adding an actual door with a digital lock. There were a few other modifications Neal could see, and he didn't like any of them. They spoke of trouble, and they did so loudly. For example, he didn't like the pipe which came into the room, through a carefully closed-back hole in the farthest wall.

It all looked a bit... unprofessional, yeah, but perhaps his abductor was working alone, with whatever funds they had. The work had been well done anyway, Neal could see it from where he was forced to sit. Rough, but effective.

He didn't want to know what the pipe was meant for. Really.

But he had a feeling he'd have to witness its use any time soon anyway.

Neal couldn't hear a sound anywhere close, so he doubted there was anyone else around. For now. Someone had brought him here and tied him to a chair, after all. He guessed he was somewhere in the Bronx, because reasons – he really, really didn't want to think about how it probably was a place he had looked up in case he needed to isolate someone for interrogation. If he remembered well, a whole deserted neighborhood, where only thugs and homeless people hanged out.

Footsteps. Neal tensed.

The door opened, and a man in his mid-forties stepped in. A blond, tall man, with a lot of visible mucle and a nasty scar under the right eye. It took no more than twelve seconds for Neal to find him in his memories, though the scar was new.

Neal hid a gulp as he realized that it indeed had something to do with Bryce Larkin, deceased CIA agent, and probably nothing to do with Neal Caffrey, FBI CI. Or at least, he hoped. That'd leave him at least one chance to work it out.

"Agent Larkin, so pleased to see you again... Or should I call you Neal Caffrey? It sounds oddly real a name, considering who you're supposed to be, you know. I wonder, your superiors didn't know either, did they? About the conman Neal Caffrey, who came to be before Bryce Larkin?"

So much for hope, then. Neal gave Daryl Riggs a wry, sardonic smile.

"What do you want exactly, Captain Riggs?"

The NSA agent's smile got even more unpleasant.

"I'm on the run, you see, Larkin. The Ring fell, and I ran until last month, but they spotted me a few days ago, and now I'm done for. If you give me a hand in disappearing, as you're so good at it..."

"Go to Hell."

Riggs nodded, and walked out. Just as he was passing the door, he turned one last time.

"I guessed as much. A shame, really, but in compensation I planned us one last game, to pass time, for entertainment until they finally come to get me. I promise you won't get bored."

 **oOo**

The White Collar division of the Manhattan FBI office was bustling with activity, and it was not a good thing, like, at all.

Some agents were working on their own cases, true, but what was really sending the office into a frenzy was probably the disappearance of their CI on contract, and theoretically on a tracking anklet, the day before. The Marshals had come by, and were now out searching for Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke was grumbling as he reviewed the possibilities where Neal could have escaped to after having learned he had, yet again, lost his chance at freedom, Diana Berrigan and Clinton Jones were ordering the others agents around when they had nothing better to do.

The office wanted their favorite convict back, regardless of the fact he had just broken his deal anyway. They were, for a lack of a better word, fond of Neal Caffrey, and more than a bit apprehensive of what might have happened to him, on the off chance he hadn't just run for the hills. Sure, it seemed like it, but what could they say? They were his friends, or at least friendly acquaintances, and Peter didn't seem to buy the obvious theory that his best friend had just run.

The ASAC just couldn't buy it. He wouldn't say he hadn't expected Neal to take the news of his continued enslavement – or what passed as such to a Mozzie-level drama queen – badly, or that at some point the convict would have run, faced with the unfairness of his situation. But Peter felt it wasn't quite right, especially not after their last conversation. Neal wouldn't have gone so quickly, because until the very same morning, he had been trying to keep his faith in a possible release. He hadn't been planning, at the time, to run away.

And sure, Neal Caffrey was incredibly good at disappearing without a trace, but even he had limits. Such as, he couldn't possibly have come up with a plan in the short amount of time between their conversation and the time the tracker had been cut.

So no, Peter didn't believe in the disappearing act.

He was missing something, he knew it. Something important about Neal. Neal wasn't...

A knock on his office's door drew Peter out of his worried musing. Diana was standing by the doorframe, her face uncharacteristically frowny.

"Boss, I think you should come down and take a look at the package that was just delivered to us."

Peter almost jumped out of his chair, and followed Diana in the stairs. His eyes searched the open space workroom as they did so, and he immediately noticed a small group of agents, all standing around a cardboard parcel of unknown origine and purpose. It looked non-descript enough, about the size of a big, fat book – now that he thought about it, almost the size of the Mosconi Codex.

Peter doubted he'd find a book in it, though.

But there was the name Neal Caffrey written in large, bold marker pen.

He joined Jones, who was perusing the package with obvious curiosity.

"Any idea what it is?"

"Not a bomb, I can assure you of that. But apart from that, Peter, I have absolutely no idea. No clue as to who sent it, and if Neal had done it himself, I'm almost sure he'd have done something less dull and inconspicuous. This doesn't bear his trademark style, you know."

Peter twiched on that last sentence, already missing his partner's terrible ideas, which usually managed to turn out alright anyway, by some strange turn of fate.

"Let's see what's inside, then."

Peter took a deep breath, and cut the package open.

He was surprised to find it mostly empty, only containing what looked like an excessive amount of bubble wrap, under which they found Neal's anklet, barely scratched – probably taken off by someone with the actual means to do it properly... and, after a more detailed search of the cardboard box, a rectangle of paper, with only one thing written on it: the IP adress to some site, which was worryingly named "Fantastic Show", and was already displaying the necessary layout for shared videos, and an article about Neal cafffrey, conman extraordinaire. It did not bode well, not at all.

At least, Peter mused, it was related to Neal's disappearance.

And it could have been worse, after all. They could not have received anything, and as a consequence the incertitude as to Neal's fate would have remained. Another way it could have gone was a bloody finger in the package, for example. Perhaps, perhaps this wasn't so terrible. For now.

Diana pushed Jones to the side to get a look at the screen too, and sucked in a breath.

The site had begun to display a live feed of Neal, cuffed on a chair, hands behind his back, the left side of his head sticky with half-dried blood, though the convict didn't seem particularly bothered by that. Perhaps he hadn't realized yet. He didn't seem fully awake, if anything. Knowing Neal, whoever had taken him had had to knock him out in order to get him wherever that was. If they hadn't, Neal'd have wriggled out of their grasp within minutes. The crumpled state of his thousand dollars suits and his hair in disarray seemed to confirm the guess, if the blood hadn't been enough.

Peter couldn't help but notice that while Neal seemed beyond pissed at his situation, and perhaps slightly tense too, he was also far from panicking or looking even remotely alarmed. Not as if he didn't get the danger he was in, but more like he didn't have the time to panick, and he knew it.

A man's voice spoke up, yet no one else appeared in the frame.

Peter, Diana and Jones cringed at the obvious pleasure they heard in its words.

" _This, dear Neal Caffrey, is a choice you have to make while being watched by your precious FBI friends: lose your life here by doing nothing, or lose this life by trying to get away. Your choice!"_


	2. Fuming ( probably )

_So, I've finally finished Chuck ( I don't usually take that long, but Chuck isn't exactly my kind of show either ), and I've one thing to say: consider that Chuck kept the Intersect at the end of the serie ( unknown variable in canon ) but it's more a 1.0 than anything else, perhaps with slight modifications, but that's it._  
 _I've never been a fan of the Intersect 2.0, because it felt too much like cheating. Like, what's the point of years of experience if some nerd can just download kung fu and still kick your ass? More than that, I hated that it took over the user's control; no need for instinct, judgment, etc. I could have gone with it, if it wasn't that much of a cheat ( something like it teaches how to, but there's still a need to train to use it correctly, to react and not only to let the Intersect do everything, more than they did on the show )._  
 _I liked the Intersect 1.0, though._

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Fuming ( probably )**

"Alright, guys. Beckman sent us the last coordinates of Daryl Riggs the NSA was able to track down. Yesterday afternoon was the last moment he appeared on the CCTV system, or at least the last time the shot was clear enough to identify him. Whatever he was doing, he evaded into zones without camera coverage."

Sarah frowned at the busy street of Manhattan, searching for something, anything, that would clue them on Riggs' passage the day before. She could see two, no, three ways the former captain could have evaded the present CCTV cameras, but which one had the man chosen? It mostly depended on what he had had in mind, and where he had been headed, and Team Castle didn't have that intel.

It was really a strand of luck that had brought them here to begin with. Daryl Riggs had gone unnoticed for years, and only being at the wrong place, at the wrong moment had gotten him back on the NSA's radars. If they lost him again... There was no telling if they'd ever catch him.

Casey grunted something under his breath, that the noise of the busy street swallowed before Chuck or Sarah could get it. They turned to look at the NSA agent, who was staring at a commotion a bit further away. People kept them from seeing what was happening exactly, but they could tell the very same people were walking around something.

Chuck and Sarah exchanged a look, and followed Casey, who was already on his way to get a look.

Frankly, it had been some time since the last mission – of that kind, anyway – together. Carmichael Industries had specialized in computer security, and most of their jobs were now relatively harmless. They helped out when the NSA or the CIA had a shortage of agents at the ready and they were closer, and they weren't against collaborating if some mission or another needed Chuck's Intersect, but they weren't on call anymore. As for Casey, he still was officially NSA, but somehow it had turned into some kind of part-time job without anyone really noticing. He'd always answer to the Call of Duty – Casey might have strangled Chuck a bit for that joke, once upon a time.

Eitherway, they hadn't gotten to track someone down in a city together in some time.

They were surprised to find yellow tape and FBI agents securing a small perimeter on the sidewalk, just two dozens meters away from Riggs' last appearance on camera. It seemed too coincidental to be unrelated, and at the same time too easy to be trusted.

A bit worrying, too, Chuck would have liked to point out, when he noticed the smear of blood on the nearest wall, which a forensic guy was frowning at, as if in wonder.

Chuck hissed a question to Casey, who barely arched an eyebrow at his innocence.

"Did Riggs kill someone? I mean, really, is there a chance it wasn't him?"

"Bartowski, we're dealing with a rogue NSA agent, a Ring operative. What do you think?"

Chuck gulped and gave the colonel a vague smile – or was it a constipated look?

Casey rolled his eyes, and let Chuck and Sarah here, pushing his way into the perimeter, NSA credentials already out. A FBI agent immediately noticed him, and went to stop him from contaminating the evidence, and miraculously the colonel didn't sneer at him right away.

"Mellowed", Chuck mouthed to Sarah, who patted him on the arm lightly.

The two watched as Casey's facial expression turned to shock – or, you know, what could pass for shock for John Casey.

The FBI agent was apparently showing him a picture or a document, they couldn't tell from that side of the yellow tape. Casey had probably told the agent he was looking for a fugitive who had last been seen just around the corner, and the two had agreed on at least one thing: coincidences rarely happened in their lines of work. Now, Chuck and Sarah had seen the blood on the wall; it could either belong to a potential victim of Riggs, or Riggs himself if someone had gotten to him first, supposing all this wasn't a coincidence. There was no sign of a death, however, and why would the FBI be on the case, anyway? Shouldn't it be the police?

Casey walked back to them, a piece of paper with what looked like the picture of a man – they still couldn't see well yet, the way the NSA agent was holding it – in his left hand, and an annoyed, yet disturbed at the same time, look on his face.

Sarah gave him an interrogative look. Chuck was curiously hopeful for news. Casey grunted.

"You won't believe it, Walker."

"I won't believe what, Casey?"

Sarah was starting to become annoyed with the NSA agent's behavior, and it showed. Casey didn't seem particularly bothered by the knowledge of her anoyance. The fool, Chuck thought. There was nothing more dangerous in the world than an annoyed Sarah Walker – or, really, an annoyed Sarah Bartowski, now. Chuck knew that better than anyone.

Then again, it was Casey they were talking about. The guy probably stared a dementor in the eyes – did they have eyes under their hood, by the way? – every morning.

"Turns out a FBI CI disappeared right here, yesterday evening. He was on a tracking anklet, a non-violent criminal, con artist, thief, and a bunch of other qualifiers. Kind of like your father, Walker, only, also working with the feds, and damn good at it too. Apparently the FBI received a package just earlier, which led them to a site with live feeds of Neal Caffrey's abduction; that's the conman's name. And it certainly sounds like Riggs was the one who took him."

Sarah frowned as she tried to make sense of the news.

"Why would Riggs abduct a FBI CI, when he already has the NSA after him? Is he insane?"

Casey smirked, and damn, wasn't that frightening? – before handing his partner the sheet of paper.

"You're only saying this because you haven't seen the CI's picture, Walker."

And indeed, as soon as Chuck's and Sarah's eyes landed on the picture of a well-dressed man in his thirties, it started to make some sense. So much, really, that Chuck almost choked.

 **oOo**

One or two hours had passed since Daryl Riggs' departure, and Neal was still waiting for something to happen. He didn't particularly want something to happen, since it would most likely be something unpleasant, but it was obvious, from Riggs' last words, that the disgraced NSA agent wasn't just going to leave him to starve here. So, in a way, Neal'd rather it came now, so that he wouldn't have to wait for something dreadful to happen. Waiting was not something he liked, and waiting for something bad? He liked that even less.

Not a man to be idle, Neal had started working on his handcuffs as soon as Riggs had left the room, but that approach didn't seem to bring forth much improvement. He had, on the other hand, managed to break the chair he had been sitting on. It had needed him to take a nasty fall, but well. At least, now, only his hands were tied together by the handcuffs.

Neal glanced at the red dot of the camera in a corner of the room. He didn't actually know if Riggs really was diffusing the images to the FBI, but he wasn't going to stay here just so that Peter and the others wouldn't see some of his tricks. He didn't want to die, thank you very much.

Riggs wanted a game? Neal'd give him an escape game. And perhaps, perhaps the NSA would get an anonymous tip as to where to find the body of their fugitive later on. Neal didn't particularly like killing people, he had done so that he'd never need to unless he was using Bryce Larkin's identity, but this time... Riggs really had a screw loose up there, and the man had chosen to blur the line between Neal and Bryce. He should have been prepared to face the consequences.

He scrambled back onto his feet, rose up, and did this slightly disturbing thing with his elbows that allowed him to have his hands, while still handcuffed, in front of him rather than behind him.

Neal gave a cursory look at the cuffs, and sighed. No way he could pick those, not with his lack of tools – Riggs had taken his lockpick set, the bastard. He'd have to manage another way.

Suddenly, a ringtone startled Neal. The young man looked around the bare room, and noticed a cellphone against a wall, just under one of the condemned windows. He hesitated a moment, eventually relented, and bent down to pick up the phone.

Broken screen, so that he couldn't call whoever he wanted, surely, but apparently still working – or, even, still calling, probably on line with Riggs. There was an earpiece next to it. Neal winced as he put it in his ear, knowing already that he would regret it.

Riggs' voice resonated badly in his head the very moment Neal was done.

" _Bryce. You don't mind if I call you Bryce, Larkin? I'm used to this name, more than to Neal Caffrey, I must admit. Anyway, Larkin, I see you've gotten yourself free... or, less tied up than before, if anything. I was right to believe in you. Watching you do it, though... always a pleasure. All this makes me nostalgic of Brasilia. I believe you noticed you won't get these handcuffs off, not even by disclocating your thumbs?"_

Neal gritted his teeth, tempted not to answer the psycho's rhetorical question, but he knew it had been too late for that the moment he had decided to take the earpiece and the phone – now stuffed in his breast pocket.

"I guessed as much from the way these handcuffs are too small."

Riggs laughed on the other end of the conversation, which only unnerved Neal further. The cuffs were really too tight, just, not enough that he wouldn't feel his fingers anymore. Just enough that it'd freaking hurt. Which was a good thing, since it meant he wasn't likely to lose his fingers, but it sure wasn't helping him focus.

Bastard.

" _You'd slip out of normal handcuffs in seconds, Larkin. By the way, I've had access to your file, thanks to a friend of mine, a long time ago, when we were after you? You really are incredible, making your instructors believe you didn't already know half the things they were teaching you. I still have no idea how you managed to create, and to keep such a perfect persona running..."_

"What can I say, Riggs? I'm good at what I do."

Neal didn't particularly want to be praised by a sadistic fugitive holding him captive, right now. He took a deep breath and... – and froze.

"What is that smell?"

He didn't get an answer right away, but when Daryl Riggs spoke again, there was a cheerful tone to his words that chilled Neal to his very core. Not that he let it show.

" _This, Bryce, is the beginning of our game. You've probably noticed the pipe coming out of the wall? Slow gassing, obviously. It started, oh, two, three minutes ago? I switched it on the moment you picked up the phone. Now, I won't tell you what kind of gas it is, it'd be way too easy."_

For all Neal knew, Riggs could have simply used a harmless gas, only to see him panick, to know he'd wonder if he was telling the truth or not, if there really was yet another danger in that smell.

It was too faint, for now, for him to tell exactly what the smell was.

" _Now, the game: you get out of here, and you're free, Larkin. Simple as that."_

Neal glared at the camera in the corner of the room. He could feel his face slowly melting down into one of Bryce's neutral facial expressions, but he really couldn't care about masks right now, and he certainly wasn't feeling cheerful enough to snark at Riggs. The man was bonkers.

"Simple as that. Sure. Should I be worried about anti-personnel mines? And, why, for God's sake, Riggs, why are you doing this? Couldn't you have just put a bullet in my head or something?"

The earpiece crackled painfully. Neal'd still take the cracks over Riggs' answer, though.

" _Why? But because I can, Bryce! And also, I don't have anything else to do."_

See? Bonkers.

 **oOo**

Peter was gritting his teeth at the computer when Jones came back with Rebecca Lowe, alias Rachel Turner, wearing a orange suit which the ASAC might have appreciated more if his CI hadn't been taken by some kind of psycho who kept calling him "Bryce Larkin".

As soon as they had seen the video of Neal tied to a chair, Peter had sent Jones to retrieve Neal's ex-girlfriend, who also happened to be a criminal mastermind, and could totally have something to do with Neal's abduction. It seemed rather unlikely, but the unknown guy – Diana was running the name "Riggs" through what they knew of Neal Caffrey, but so far, nothing was coming up – seemed to know things about Neal, that the FBI didn't know about, not even after Pratt and discovering about Neal's childhood... Rachel had kept these files on Neal, she had dug so much... Or, perhaps, it had been "Riggs" who had done the investigating, who had given the info to the woman. Perhaps Neal had been the real goal, even before the diamond.

If that was the case, Peter wasn't sure Rachel Turner would even know about it. As Neal had said, things like the retrieval of the blue diamond often had a benefactor. Rachel was probably only an employee, not privy to the true goal... If there was one. Nothing said for sure it had all been staged.

Peter had to try, nonetheless.

Peter glanced one last time at the computer screen displaying Neal, unsure of what to do after his last conversation with "Riggs", and headed to speak to Rachel Turner. Jones took his place at the computer, in case something happened there – not that they could do anything about it...

He closed the door to the interrogation room behind him, his face set in determination. He couldn't let her see his fear for Neal. He couldn't let the former MI5 spy guess what was wrong, especially if she knew what was going on. He turned around, and went to sit face to face with the criminal. He wasn't in any mood to play games, but the smile she gave him told another story. He'd probably have to, if he wanted to get anything out of her.

"Agent Burke. Long time no see. Or is it? I didn't even get the time to be used to my new home..."

Peter winced a smile – it was the best he could do, a wince, in this situation, really.

"Don't worry, 'Rebecca', you'll be back to your new home before long."

"Are you upset, Agent Burke? If you don't want to speak to me, you could ask Neal to do it. I'd probably be more forthcoming with him, you know."

Peter brought his hand down on the interrogation table violently, startling Rachel Turner and himself by the gesture. She eyed him warily from there on – not exactly warily, in fact, because her mask was good, as good as Neal's, but Peter was used to Neal's mask. He could see through it, partially at least. The thought made the FBI agent grit his teeth a bit more. The likeness between Neal and Rachel Turner – not Rebecca Lowe, but Rachel Turner – was eerie on some points. The comparison angered Peter against himself; Neal wasn't a killer, when Rachel was.

Still, had it been another moment, Peter would have wondered if the two hadn't fallen for each other's play because deep down they were both searching for someone who not only would see behind the mask, but who also wouldn't even notice the mask. As if it wasn't there at all.

It wasn't the time for that, though, and Peter was frustrated, angered at Rachel Turner, especially after what she had done to Neal, even more so as Neal had now disappeared. Was she on it? How could Peter have let her get that close to his best friend without seeing a thing? Was it because of her that Neal had been taken? Could he have prevented that?

Peter took a deep, long breath, and pretended nothing had happened.

"Do you have an accomplice?"

Rachel, on the other hand, didn't seem to buy it, at all. She stared at him in silence for a moment, studying him, most likely, noticing his sharp anger, his frustration, surely.

"Where is Neal, Agent Burke?"

Peter strangled a laugh at her question, barely noting that there wasn't a hint of smugness in the criminal's voice, totally ignoring the way she was the one looking suspicious now.

"That, Turner, is exactly what I want to know, because someone abducted him yesterday evening, and the only lead we have is a package with his tracker and an address to a site showing live feeds of Neal in some abandoned building!"

The woman's face twisted in something Peter didn't dare to interpret. When she spoke again, her voice was low, menacing, even. For a moment, the FBI agent believed she really had nothing to do with this, that she cared about Neal more than he had given her credit for. That, perhaps, she wouldn't have shot Neal back then, after her failure to escape.

But his doubts came back harder, and Peter hissed a reply in anger.

"You are the one who investigated Neal's past more thoroughly than us. So isn't it normal for me to wonder, when Neal's abductor calls him by an alias I never heard of, and Neal reacts to it as if it was normal, if you know anything?!"

Rachel squinted at the FBI agent, calculating the odds he was saying the truth. Finally she asked:

"What alias?"

"Bryce Larkin."

To Peter's surprise, the criminal laughed at him, in obvious disbelief.

"That's ridiculous, Agent Burke. Neal can't be Bryce Larkin. For one, Bryce Larkin is dead."


	3. Breaking ( not that way )

_I fortunately never had to escape from an abandoned building after a psycho kidnapped me, so excuse me if everything isn't exactly believable. That being said, I try to be plausible enough._

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Breaking ( not that way )**

It took a bit under one hour for Casey to reach Beckman's phone, and for the general to arrange something with the FBI so that Team Castle could get on the investigation about a missing CI, without saying too much to the FBI right away. Except Casey, they were all civilians, now, but they had prior knowledge about the abductor – and the abducted, but Beckman had skillfully avoided that point with the FBI so far – and they had security clearance, should anything arise – because let's be honest, with Larkin involved, the possibility of things going overboard had risen tremendously. Getting Kyle Bancroft, the SAC under whom Larkin had apparently been working – Peter Burke's boss – to agree to their meddling had been slightly more difficult, but as the general had provided a possible identity for their missing CI's abductor...

The point being, when Sarah, Chuck and Casey finally were allowed to enter the federal building – that is, without ruffling any more feathers than necessary – they literally barged in. Because Bancroft might have agreed only a couple of minutes earlier, it meant no one else knew about their special visitors. Especially not the White Collar division.

Chuck would have liked to point out that, surely, Casey's attitude – growling, snarling, and, being, you know, otherwise uncivilized – certainly didn't help in being accepted. The man still didn't view the FBI as a very good agency, to the point it kind of showed on his face.

The FBI agents they crossed path with as they went up to the White Collar division obviously felt the love, and returned the love, tenfold. Probably because they were, kind of, at home, and no one likes to be looked at disdainfully in their own home. Sometimes Chuck wished Casey could choke on a piece of tact hidden in his meal.

Sarah barely glanced at her ominous colleague, held her husband's hand to reassure him that no FBI agents were going to murder them and hide the bodies in the cellar because of Casey's attitude, and smiled apologetically at the miffed agents, who acknowledged her with a stiff nod... and kept well away from the NSA agent. She understood why.

The elevator stopped at the White Collar division's floor, and the three visitors walked out.

"Mr and Mrs Carmichael, Colonel Casey. The search for Caffrey is lead by ASAC Peter Burke, over there. If you'd follow me, I still have to inform them of your... welcome assistance."

Chuck sensed a certain terseness in the voice which had addressed them. He looked for its owner.

Kyle Bancroft, a black, no-nonsense man, was waiting there, looking stern, and not at all impressed by Casey's rough exterior – the inside's rough too, Morgan'd have whispered, had he been there. Good thing Morgan wasn't there, Chuck thought as he refrained a gulp. It wouldn't do to have two tactless people invading the FBI offices when they were nothing more than tolerated guests – thanks for that, Casey. Not that Chuck had considered not having Casey come along. The guy was good for more than brawl, and as long as he didn't shoot Bryce dead, again, on sight...

Right. They were here because of Daryl Riggs, and apparently that included searching for the not-so-dead-again Bryce Larkin. Better get working, then.

Bancroft pushed the glass doors open, and every other agent around turned to watch as their boss' boss entered the offices of the White Collar division. They probably hadn't quite expected to see him – or, at least, not this soon into the search for their missing CI. After a time, if they hadn't gotten a lead, or, worse, if their criminal consultant had been seen doing something illegal, which was obviously not a concern right now – in other words, if things started to become a problem for the Bureau, perhaps... But not yet.

The SAC lead them to a middle-aged man, around Casey's age, who looked busy and stressed, but the bad,-angry-kind of stressed. Sarah couldn't help an internal shudder as she noticed his eerie ressemblance to Kieran Ryker, her former handler... and creepy enemy. Only, Ryker was dead, and there was a stark contrast between the CIA agent and the FBI agent. Despite their looks, their faces looked nothing alike. Even in angered frustration, Burke didn't have that coldness in his eyes.

They did, but didn't look that much alike, she decided. Perhaps a long lost cousin or something, with the odds of genetics kicking in.

"Burke. Visitors for you. With interesting things to say. You should listen to them. And just to warn you, apparently your case is of interest to the NSA. Colonel Casey, here."

With these short, clipped, possibly worrying words, Bancroft left. Burke seemed a bit surprised by the lack of proper eloquence. Sarah hoped Beckman had began searching for an explanation to Bryce's sudden reappearance, because this smelled like a whole bunch of problems to deal with.

Casey, no words lost on courtesy, stepped forward and eyed everyone critically as he informed the FBI agents of what they knew so far... and as such asked for more info on their part too.

"Your CI has probably been taken by Daryl Riggs, a former NSA agent who went rogue a few years ago, and has history with... Caffrey. As your boss said, we have a special interest in getting this traitor back. Anything you want to share?"

A tough-looking, not-impressed woman squinted at the colonel, and Casey returned the glare. She wasn't the former-military one in the team, the colonel could say after a glimpse at the black man standing in the back of the room, his eyes on the screen of a computer despite the new arrivals, but she was the one who'd kick the ass of whoever tried to get one over on her. Perhaps, Casey thought, perhaps these FBI agents weren't so bad.

As far as not-bad a FBI agent could get.

Burke was the one to answer, though.

"See for yourself, Colonel Casey."

And he directed the team to the laptop, for them to see the live video of the abducted Neal Caffrey.

Casey groaned. There was no mistaking the silhouette, even if the looks were widely different.

"Definitely Larkin. Only Larkin gets in trouble like this. Doesn't this guy knows how to stay dead?"

 **oOo**

Neal glared at the locked door, just in case it'd change its state to please him. Which it didn't. He wasn't particularly surprised by that. Things tended to dislike him, today. And people, too. People didn't like him either. Riggs certainly wasn't being a good host. And if the insane rogue captain was saying the truth, if the video of Neal's abduction was really being sent to the FBI, Neal's friends and colleagues might come not to like him either, soon enough.

Well, no point worrying about that now. What he needed to do, was to get himself out of what was, without a doubt, a trap. Riggs couldn't have just decided to handcuff him to a chair and then wait patiently for him to escape – or not, and in this case, Neal'd have probably died of starvation, no, even better, of dehydration, which could, admittedly, be the point of Riggs' little game. For all he knew, the guy had sealed all the ways out, and was dying to see Neal try and get out, only to...

Focus.

Neal looked around one more time. What did he have?

He had a broken cellphone with an earpiece, which Riggs mainly used to taunt him, but that he had still kept, just in case. It could come in handy. Perhaps. One day or another. Preferably Neal'd be out, or even dead, by then. He didn't fancy dying of dehydration. A bullet in the head, on the other hand... Clean, relatively painless, and quick. Unless the shot was wonky, and then it really would be worse than dehydration...

Neal realized he was drifting into his Bryce-state-of-mind, without even meaning to. He wasn't playing it this time. It might not be a good thing. If he let himself be Bryce without being conscious of it, when Bryce was supposed to be only a persona... Neal wasn't sure he wouldn't become Bryce, in a way. He had always been careful to let his darkest alias out of reach, to make Bryce no more than a mask. Because if Bryce actually became a part of Neal... If Bryce's thoughts pattern became natural, then Neal wouldn't be able to go back. He wouldn't be the non-violent conman anymore, but all the way the missing CIA agent who didn't like violence, but used it when necessary... and who couldn't go back to the CIA, because Bryce Larkin wasn't real. And the CIA didn't know that.

But if Bryce became real enough to actually be a part of Neal...

He needed to focus.

He had a cellphone with an earpiece, his clothes but no tools, different pieces of a broken chair, and a camera stalking him from the high corner of the room. He was almost tempted to give a finger to the asshole spying on him, but considering Peter might be watching too... Nah, better not to. Neal'd like to keep his secret identity – since when was he a superhero? – as long as possible.

And Neal Caffrey wouldn't give the finger to his captor, not even in rightful anger.

Now, if he had had his lockpick set, or an usable cellphone with a connecting cable or something, for example, he might have tried working on the digital door, or even on the lock. A lockpick set could prove incredibly useful, even when there was no lock to pick. You just had to know what to do... and have a bit of luck, too.

Unfortunately, Neal didn't even have his lockpick set.

He considered breaking down the door, but it seemed solid, new, and totally unjustified in this derelict building – unless you wished to keep a former CIA agent inside for fun, which, guess what, was exactly what Daryl Riggs was doing now. Moreover, if Neal had brought his cuffed hands back in front of him, which was, he had to admit, a distinct improvement, they were still cuffed. Kicking down the door might ask for more balance than he could provide right now. Shouldering his way out would irremediably end up with him on the floor, too, and getting up wouldn't be pleasant.

Neal cocked his head as he observed the wall, next to the door, carefully. He knocked on it once, twice, thrice, and smiled a bit. Well, so much for added security. Riggs had filled the cracks, but the walls were still the contrary of sturdy, especially partition walls. And this building? It wasn't high class, even before it had been abandoned.

Now, Neal didn't have a hammer to take the wall down, so it'd be a bit more difficult, and perhaps a little painful to bring the damn wall down. But he could do it. Besides, he had a broken chair leg.

Neal considered his options one last time, but staying in this room went with gassing; not in his best interest. He slammed his weight against the wall, which looked fine-ish on this side, but sounded pretty disemboweled on the other side.

He was pleased to hear an ominous crack as he did so, gleefully ignoring the pain he was sure he'd feel by the end of this trial. Alright, gleefully may be a bit exaggerated. Conveniently satisfied, then.

Well, now he just had to... continue. Until a crack appeared, which he could, hopefully, enlarge with the help of his faithful broken chair leg. This was going to be so much fun.

By the end of his ordeal, Neal thouroughly regretted his choice to bring down a wall this fine day. Sure, he had just walked his way through a self-made hole in a wall, next to a reinforced door, out of a slowly gassed room, and he was very glad for it. But his shoulder was killing him, he had at least two splinters in his right hand from the broken chair, and that wasn't even the worst.

The worst came in the form, or rather, in the sound, of growls. Aggressive, harmful growls. Canine growls. The kind of growls you got from large, heavy, muscular, attack-type dogs.

Neal turned around, saw another door, at the end of the corridor he had just found himself in. A door which had just opened, and from which two hostile representants of the canine race were walking out, eyes fixed on the young man. Growling.

"Marvelous."

 **oOo**

Jones glanced from the laptop screen to the confrontation that was happening in the room, insure whether or not it was safe to stop watching Caffrey bringing down a wall with his bare hands – and a broken chair leg, do not forget the broken chair leg. He guessed he'd keep an eye on the video while the others tried to rip each other's head off, because someone had to make sure nothing – worse – happened to their consultant.

For now, Peter, Diana and the newcomers seemed too busy glaring at each other to mind the fact that Caffrey was behaving slightly out of character.

Peter, as a matter of fact, was scoffing at the colonel.

"Bryce Larkin again, uh? I must say, you all seem to know a lot about this alias I've never heard of. Even Rachel Turner knew of him, but unlike you, she seems to think the guy is dead, and definitely can't be Neal, because, you know, Bryce Larkin was apparently a CIA agent, mainly known for having turned traitor right in the middle of Neal's four years in jail. Now, I'd like to know why you all seem adamant that Neal is this guy?"

The colonel was about to retort when his blond colleague tapped him on the shoulder, and gestured to the third person in the team, whose eyelids were suddenly fluttering open for no good reason.

"Chuck?"

The man almost did a double take, coughed, and gave the FBI agents a sorry look.

"Sorry. Just got surprised by the photo of a MI5 agent on the table over there. Hadn't expected another rogue spy in the story. What did she do?"

Peter glanced at Rachel's file, left open on the table, as the visitor had noticed, and sighed.

"She passed herself off as a harmless love interest for Neal, pretended she was kidnapped, and forced him to retrieve a priceless diamond in exchange for a friend's life. Eventually we got her, but after what happened to Neal... I wanted to interrogate her, in case she knew anything; she, at least, doesn't believe her boyfriend could be a rogue CIA agent. She'd probably know, considering her background. So, again, what's the whole insanity about Bryce Larkin and Neal?"

Because, at that point, Peter really had enough. Neal was good at juggling personas, and even personalities and skills when needed, but even he couldn't be in two places at the same time; namely, in a supermax jail, and running around the world doing CIA stuff. Right?

The colonel sneered a bit, turned back to the computer, just in time to see Neal tearing off a partition wall with a broken chair leg, and pointed at the CI.

"Sorry to disappoint, FBI, but this guy is definitely our guy. Neal Caffrey is intelligent, crafty, a good actor, and athletic enough, isn't he? So was Bryce Larkin. And they share the same face. Now, what I'd like to know, is how a KIA agent of the CIA with his star on the wall managed to cheat death a second time to end up as a con artist CI of the FBI, and how the hell no one noticed!"

Before Peter could point out how ridiculous the colonel's words were – seriously, Neal Caffrey, a CIA agent? – the man named "Chuck" pushed himself in between Colonel Casey and the FBI agent, as if expecting bloodshed if he didn't take the conversation over.

"If you'll excuse me, I... Right, so, I'm afraid, Agent Burke, that your Neal Caffrey is but a con... an alias... a fake... I knew Bryce in College, at Stanford, back in 2002. He's from Connecticut. He was recruited by the CIA during college. He was my friend. Perhaps, after he died a second time for his country, he thought he'd had enough. A non-violent conman persona would be another chance at life for him... though I don't know why he didn't just become someone normal."

Peter wasn't convinced, for very good reasons. But he thought he had to answer that last question, at least, even if the theory behind it was completely wrong.

"The adrenaline. But that's not what bothers me with your theory. What bothers me is that I arrested Neal in 2005, and my investigation led me all the way back to 1995, when he was 18 years old. I have actual proofs, and not only uncheckable records, of his existence. Also, I met his father, and I happen to know his official names: Neal Bennett from birth, and in WITSEC, Danny Brooks. Now, I find that a bit too much work, just to convince the FBI of his existence. There are easier ways than to fake an entire history with the Marshals. I'm afraid Neal existed way before Bryce Larkin was created. So, Neal certainly isn't Bryce Larkin, unless you pretend he actually conned the C..."

Peter stopped there, gaze in the void, as he considered. He looked back at the live feed of Neal, who had almost finished his way out. He closed his eyes a moment. Then he looked back at the visitors, almost certain Neal had just gotten himself in a lot of trouble. And the conman wasn't even here.

But for now, Neal had other problems. Peter'd think about his friend's madness once said friend wouldn't be threatened by a madman anymore.

"You know what, he probably did. He probably made Larkin out of scratch, and somehow got himself in the CIA because he was bored or something."

The blond woman in the group chose that moment to intervene, just as the video changed cameras, now showing a corridor, where Neal had ended up, and the sound of growls rose from the laptop.

"Whether he's Bryce or Neal Caffrey isn't the point! We should be trying to find him back!"

Chuck went white, probably as he realized they had forgotten about actually helping Neal; Peter wasn't proud of himself either. The younger man took out his own laptop, and put it next to the computer showing the feeds.

"You're right, Sarah. Do... whatever you can think of. I'll try to hack the site's connection."


	4. Shining ( in a way )

_Oh, if you want updates as I write ( and if you don't have an account to follow ), I have a twitter account where I post short comments about my fics:_

 _https_:_/_/_twitter_._com_/_EKernor_

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Shining ( in a way )**

Chuck was doing his hacking thing – that's so much more complicated than that, Casey! – when he got distracted by the growling coming from the video, again. His glance wandered for a minute to the image of Bryce, accompanied by two large, vicious-looking dogs. Chuck gulped audibly.

He wasn't sure of what he was feeling about Bryce – Neal Caffrey – being back from amongst the dead, again. Oddly enough, he wasn't feeling betrayed at all. More like, he was feeling guilty as he realized he had no idea what his – former, his mind traitorously whispered, before Chuck could strangle it quiet – friend's face was looking like right now. The angle of the camera was too high, and not in the right direction, to show him Bryce's – Neal Caffrey's – face right now.

There had been a time, Chuck could have guessed the look on Bryce's face, only by looking at his position, at the way his shoulders slouched, at the tilt of his head.

He couldn't anymore. Not that it mattered, really, considering all of Bryce's mannerisms could as well be fake, for all he knew. How much of Bryce had been the real Neal Caffrey?

Chuck couldn't even feel angry at Bryce for having lied, for having pretended to be dead, again. He'd have probably taken it badly, had Bryce popped back up in his life after having recovered – from death, no less – again, because, somehow, he'd have resented Bryce. Chuck had matured a lot in the last years; he knew he had rarely been fair to Bryce, even once the truth had been revealed.

Chuck gritted his teeth, and decided to focus back on what he was doing, because dwelling on whether or not he should resent Neal Caffrey for Bryce's death wasn't going to help the man keep living, whereas finding the source of the video would help.

He looked back at his computer, and swore under his breath. Whoever Daryl had hired to make the site had done a good job, and the distraction had cost Chuck all his progress. He really, really shouldn't get his eyes off his laptop, not if he wanted Caffrey to be alive when they'd talk – not that there'd be a discussion if the con artist was dead, but, you know...

Casey's eyes left Team Castle's personal nerd, and went back to the screen of the FBI agents' computer, where Larkin was currently shown, about to be cornered by two hounds. The NSA agent wasn't worried about the former CIA agent, obviously, especially not as Larkin apparently had a reviving superpower, but still.

While Casey wouldn't care – that much, at least – if Larkin had an accident right now, it probably wasn't Chuck's case. The kid had grown up a lot since 2007, but he still was a kid. And, more than that, it wouldn't be Walker's case. She was probably the one who cared the most about Larkin, right now, despite what Bartowski might say. The nerd had pushed Larkin out of his friend category long ago, and even now that he knew the truth about the CIA agent's motives for, well, everything, Casey still had to see anything that'd say Chuck really cared about Bryce Larkin. The kid hadn't exactly been friendly the first time Larkin had come back, and even now, the NSA agent couldn't see more than Bartowski's usual concern for people in danger in the guy's attitude.

Besides, death by mauling dogs was nasty. No matter how much Casey distrusted Larkin, or whatever his real name was, he didn't wish such a fate for the man.

There was nothing he could do right now, so the NSA agent took a moment to look around.

The tough woman was in a corner of the office, hissing at her cellphone to "get your ass over here immediately, and I don't care if you're allergic to federal buildings, Mozzie!". Casey wondered who she was talking to, but dismissed the interrogation; whoever that was, he was pretty cure they'd be here soon, given the FBI agent's tone.

Walker too was on the phone, calling Beckman to see if the general had gotten anything about "Bryce Larkin" and Neal Caffrey. The NSA agent'd have done it, but the former CIA agent had snatched the phone out of his hand and glared. He was pretty sure she was trying not to think about what her former boyfriend might suffer in the next hours.

Speaking of which, the colonel was really wondering how the CIA had missed Larkin's dual identity. When they missed a nobody, he could understand, but apparently Caffrey had already been on the FBI's radar when the CIA had recruited him. Someone, at some point, should have noticed that his fingerprints were already known by law enforcement.

For all Casey knew, Larkin had made a supervirus to keep the two faces of the coin separate, and had somehow gotten it on the governmental servers without being detected. Perhaps he should ask the nerd if that was possible. Or, wait – perhaps not. Casey didn't need Chuck nerding out at him about Larkin's possible prowesses, thank you very much.

The black man in the FBI team was reviewing files, possibly those about Caffrey's disappearance from the day before. The one on the top of the pile looked freshly printed. The NSA agent guessed he was trying to see if there was anything to find from Larkin's last location. Rarely effective, but you never knew. White Collar agents surely were used to searching for the needle in a haystack.

It left the older FBI agent, who was looking just as worried as Walker. The man didn't seem to know what to do, quite like Casey, and was simply staring at the video feed, a frustrated scowl on his lips.

The colonel had that odd and slightly disturbing urge to say something comforting, which he usually blamed on his concern for efficiency – he had a reputation, you know.

"He'll manage."

Burke looked up from the screen for a moment, and a wry smile formed on his lips.

"He always does."

Well, that, at least, didn't seem to have changed at all. Same old Larkin. Burke and the NSA agent spoke at the same time, after a moment of silence.

"He's dangerously, crazily good at surviving dire situations."

"He's usually insane about it, but he always walks out the winner."

The two looked at each other in muted surprise, too caught on their current problem to really care for surprise, but still surprised nonetheless.

"You don't know half of it."

And that, they realized as soon as they said it together, was probably truer than they thought.

 **oOo**

Neal was torn between not looking at the two dogs, since eye contact was the best way to get an unknown canine to jump for your throat, especially when it was hostile, and keeping his eyes on the dogs since, anyway, they were more than likely to go after his throat any moment.

He had just slammed his way through a derelict wall, his left shoulder was hurting, his right hand too for the matter, he was almost certain he had started bleeding from the head again, his suit was ruined – he hated ruining Byron's suits – and he only had a broken chair leg – already in a very bad state – to defend himself with.

He glared – inwardly, outside it looked more like a cool-headed glance, just in case – at the dogs, and was very tempted to turn to look at the camera he had seen embedded in the wall behind him and to mouth "Really?" at Riggs, who was certainly watching.

He'd have done it, surely, but Neal knew the dogs would probably chose that moment to start and maul him to death. And while Neal was quick to complain about his situation – to himself, of course, he wasn't going to let Riggs or anyone else for the matter, see how frustrated he was by all this circus – he was also determined to get out of here alive.

So the conman took a step back, letting Bryce's personality out to play – no, Bryce didn't play. Bryce wasn't particularly playful. He hadn't been for a long time. Once, perhaps, when he was just another student at Stanford... But not anymore. And, deep down, Neal knew he was a bit like that too. Not as dark, perhaps, but just as damaged. Because he always pretended he wasn't didn't really mean anything. Neal certainly enjoyed fooling around, but he knew when to be grave. He usually avoided the situations that'd ask him to be, though. He'd rather ignore the damage.

Anyway, Bryce was the one he needed, now. The one who, unlike Neal, didn't fool around. The one who wouldn't hesitate.

Perhaps, Neal mused one last time before completely immersing himself in his persona, perhaps that was why he could still pretend everything was simple and joyous. Bryce was taking on all the darkness, the betrayals, the lack of trust – and Neal could pretend.

The dogs suddenly growled louder, their legs tense and the front of their body low on the ground, ready to pounce – they were mirroring him, he realized. Neal had been threatening enough – even though most people couldn't see it, because of the mask, Neal still was Bryce Larkin... or Bryce still was Neal Caffrey, more accurately. But as Bryce... he wasn't wearing the mask anymore – not on that point, at least; for the rest, Bryce was as much of a mask as Nick Halden and all the others. Only Neal was truly real.

Not that the hounds would care. Neal or Bryce, to them, it was the same thing. The same scent.

They could wait long, like that, for one of them to make the first move. Neal decided to offer it, since he wasn't sure he'd be able to fight the two attack dogs if they stayed like that, staring, for too long. He wasn't exactly in the best of health... And even now, he had no guarantee he'd walk out of this one alive. Certainly not unscathed.

He felt a drop of blood rolling down his forehead, as if in a hurry, after having sluggishly made its way through the re-opening wound. The moment it fell off his chin, Neal moved.

The dogs pounced only half a second later, in perfect sync. Neal jumped above the first one, but couldn't avoid the second one, which went for his thigh. The pain of the fangs ripping through the fabric, both of his pants and of his flesh, had him close his eyes for a moment.

He wasn't defenseless for all that. Even before his eyes opened again, his right hand, with the broken chair leg in it, fell violently on his attacker. The dog yelped as the sharp wood entered its flesh. Neal heard the sound of blood bubbling out. He couldn't see with his eyes closed, for sure, but he had known where exactly the dog had been – biting his leg.

Neal's eyes snapped open just as the dog's jaws slacked open. The pain diminished, but he was still painfully aware of the blood, which was now flowing freely out of the wounds, and of the torn flesh. His leg almost gave out under him.

He wasn't done yet.

The first dog had turned around, and was coming back for him. Neal didn't have a weapon anymore, the broken chair leg still in the other dog, which had dragged itself away from the fight.

The conman saw a blur of black fur and two rows of yellowish fangs. Instinctively, he held up his arms to defend himself. At some point, even training couldn't account for everything. And it had been a long time since his last real fight. Dogs weren't his usual opponents, on top of that.

Surprisingly, his arms weren't torn to shreds.

In fact, Neal suddenly realized, the hound had bitten something off, alright. But it wasn't him. The dog's powerful jaws were now clasped on his handcuffs' chain – and, admittedly, one or two fangs were also grazing his hands, but it wasn't the point. The dog was biting off the links Neal had been working on for a good time previously. The chain broke. The dog fell down. Neal kicked.

The hound was propulsed against the nearest wall, which broke down at the impact.

Neal took a moment, looked at the broken cuffs, and despite everything, smiled at the camera.

 **oOo**

Peter took a deep breath as he watched his CI – but was it only Neal, at this point? – smirking at the video camera. Sure, the man didn't look good, but at least he was alive. The entrance of the attack dogs had made the FBI agent worry yet a bit more – meaning, a lot – but this particular threat, at least, was dealt with.

Although, Riggs was still out there, and Peter feared that Neal wouldn't be able to do much in this state. They really needed to find something to lead them to his friend, but what? Chuck Carmichael was working on the site, and Jones was trying to find a clue as to how Daryl Riggs had found Neal to begin with, and, of course, every police officer and FBI agent around knew to be on the lookout, but there wasn't much else they could do. And for now, their search wasn't proving very successful.

Sarah Carmichael stopped next to Peter to look at the live feed. She looked particularly upset, as she watched Neal tear off his left sleeve to bandage the bite wound on his leg – Peter winced for him, as he knew what the clothes meant to Neal, and as the CI had other things to worry about right now.

"He's going to make it."

Peter didn't find himself very convincing, as it was, but the blond woman still gave him a weary smile.

"He always does, doesn't he? Even when you think he didn't..."

Apparently, they all had similar experiences, on some points at least, with Neal. Even if to the other team, he was Bryce Larkin.

Peter suddenly felt very glad that Neal hadn't yet pulled a disappearing / dying act on him. He had gone, run away, taken the leave more than once, but he had never made Peter believe he was dead.. At least, not since they had started working together. The years before that didn't count.

Diana burst back in the room – when had she left? Perhaps Peter needed to pay a bit more attention to his surroundings, and not only to the video... – with Mozzie in tow. The small man looked even more skittish than usual, and was eyeing the strangers in the room distrustfully. For once Peter didn't think it unwarranted. Mozzie's best friend had disappeared, again, and the usual team wasn't alone. Since the older conman probably had no idea of what was happening, he could very well be assuming Neal was in more trouble than usual.

Which was the case, but not on a legal point of view.

Diana sat down, and sighed.

"Mozzie says he spoke to Neal right before his abduction. I can try and see if he remembers anything, if you want, Boss?"

Before Peter could answer, the conman scoffed.

"Please, Lady Suit, I'm good enough to tell you there wasn't anything out of place that I could have noticed, and that I didn't. A bunch of passersby; a man with cowboy boots, a woman with a craddle and a baby, two city workers, and a man in a suit talking on the phone. Nothing else, unless we're considering aliens."

Peter stared at Mozzie for a moment, not sure what to say.

The conman frowned at the FBI agent, blinked, and turned to look at Diana.

"Are we considering aliens?"

She rolled her eyes.

"No, Mozzie, we're not. Besides, I don't think aliens would use a site to show us live feeds of Neal's abduction. And we've got a name, Daryl Riggs, a rogue NSA agent, which makes your alien theory even more unlikely."

"On the contrary, Lady Suit! If there are aliens, you can be sure they've infiltrated the NSA, the CIA, the FBI, and every other alphabet agencies you can think of! This Riggs might have been about to be found out, which is why he went rogue!"

There was a long silence in the room, and even Carmichael looked up from his computer for a moment, dumbfounded. Then Mozzie calmed down – or, as much as he could while in a federal building. Peter could tell the conman wasn't believing Neal had been abducted by aliens, but also wasn't about to drop his idea that there were visitors from outer space hiding amongst humans. Which wasn't a problem, because it really wasn't the point here. As long as Mozzie understood that Neal had been taken by a human being...

"Sorry. Who are your friends?"

Peter, Diana and Jones shared a look, sure they'd regret it the moment it would be said. The colonel cut the opportunity to handle the conman properly, though.

"NSA. And otherwise. We were after Riggs, when Larkin appeared out of nowhere, again."

Mozzie took a cautious step around Diana's seat, to put the agent between him and the growling individual – this one, he decided, might not be quite human. Then he asked, eyes squinted.

"Who's this Larkin fellow you're talking about? What does he have to do with anything? And don't come anywhere near me, I'm strictly anti-spooks."

The NSA agent gave the conman a short, frightening sneer.

"Caffrey is Larkin. Sorry to burst your bubble, Moleman, but your friend is a spook."

Peter could almost see the wheels turning in Mozzie's head. He really wished he could do a discreet facepalm right now; unforunately, facepalms weren't discreet by nature. The FBI agent wasn't sure what conclusions the conman had just reached, but it had to be surprisingly close to the truth.

"Certainly not. Neal is no spook; he is a con artist. Or, really, a con master, at this point."

And the small man smiled triumphantly, as if he had told the truth of the world with these words.


	5. Falling ( without doubts )

**Chapter 5: Falling ( without doubts )**

The weird little man who had arrived with Agent Berrigan edged around Casey, and towards Chuck, who barely looked up from his laptop, engrossed in whatever he was doing. The suspicious guy – Mozzie, right? – squinted at the screen, and pointed out something to the hacker, that only both of them – and perhaps Jones, but he would never admit to anything – understood. Nerd talk.

Casey watched as Berrigan observed the suspicious guy dubiously. A moment passed, and the woman finally asked what was on her mind. And, Casey had to admit, he could see why she looked doubtful, without it being particularly menacing.

The little man was squirrelly.

"You've got here quite fast for someone who's 'allergic' to federal buildings, Mozzie."

"Mozzie" squinted up from Chuck's screen.

"Federal buildings are bad for my general well-being, Lady Suit, but for Neal I have no fear. Do I need to remind you that the last time he almost died, it was because of you Suits?"

Diana Berrigan raised both eyebrows at the small man.

"So what? You thought we had chained him up in a dungeon or something? And don't forget, he was shot in the leg, not in the heart, crook. He wasn't going to die."

Casey almost commented that apparently, even a shot to the heart wouldn't to kill Larkin. The former CIA agent seemed to have nine lives. Which made an awful lot of sense, considering he was apparently a cat buglar, too – the colonel had taken a look at "Neal Caffrey"'s FBI file while the others were busy looking for Larkin. Unlike them, he wasn't forgetting that there was yet another investigation behind the recovery of the CI; what were the conman's true identity, and his goals?

"Mozzie", whatever the hell that was for a name, wasn't done, though.

"Neal was shot in the leg by an OIA agent! Who was alright with putting the equivalent of a price on his head, without specifying 'wanted alive!' My conclusion: alphabet agencies, not to be trusted."

Casey saw Sarah cringe as she heard that. Larkin – Caffrey – apparently made an habit of being shot by governmental agents. He already had the NSA and the OIA to his list, and that didn't say anything about the times he had been "shot at" without being "shot in". Hopefully they'd get to Riggs before the NSA score doubled... considering that Larkin hadn't been killed by something else beforehand. Like, gas. Mauling dogs. A bomb, perhaps.

Sarah turned to her husband, her worry apparent on her face. She was anxious, and she knew it. Now, she wasn't even bothering to pretend otherwise. Moreover, the other people in the room also cared for Bryce – Neal Caffrey... – it was visible. Why should she bother?

"Do you see anything?"

The hacker pulled a face, his eyes still on the laptop's screen.

"I'll get something, I swear. But the guy who did this work... It wasn't Riggs himself. This is a pro's work, and our rogue NSA guy only had the basics of hacking taught to him, judging from his file. Like pretty much every other agent. He couldn't have done this... labyrinth. If he had, I'd have Bryce's location by now. Or at least the place where the feed are sent from, if they're redirected."

Casey growled something incomprehensible, which had the black FBI agent look up from his files with a startled look, and a slightly suspicious frown. Like, why is there a lion in the office – Oh, wait, that's the NSA agent. Chuck knew that frown all too well.

"Don't care for your explanations, Nerd. Call us when you find something. I'm going to make a few calls to some colleagues, in case they knew Riggs. Don't bother me unless youve got a location – or an explanation as to how Larkin can also be Neal Caffrey."

Chuck thought to look up from his laptop to give the colonel an outraged glare, but decided the banter wasn't worth the time he'd probably lose doing that. There had to be something he had missed... No system was foolproof. And he was the Pirahna, damnit!

Sarah's eyes were on Chuck's grimace. She was remembering Morgan's words about Chuck in Nerd Mode – or whatever name they gave to it.

"I'll get you a coffee, alright?"

Her husband hummed something that sounded vaguely like an agreement. Diana Berrigan, the other woman in the room, offered to show her to the coffee machine – even if the coffee there wasn't exactly "good". It was alright; Sarah was used to it, and she wasn't sure Chuck'd even notice the taste while he was nerding out.

The two women passed through the office, and Sarah, out of habit, detailed the place. She had been a bit too preoccupied on the way in to look at it properly, and while she wasn't less anxious... she was doing better now that she had a few more answers as to Bryce's situation – and a lot more questions, but well, that was Bryce they were talking about.

No. It wasn't. It was Neal Caffrey.

Her eyes fell upon on desk, next to the entrance, which stood out because of a small bust of Socrates next to the computer. Sarah didn't think much of it, but it kind of surprised her to see it, there, without reason... without anyone behind the desk, to ask the reason for its presence.

Diana Berrigan caught her glance, and stopped.

"That's Neal's desk."

Sarah's throat constricted. She hadn't...

"I... I didn't realize. Bryce... I mean, Neal never had anything like this. I'm not sure I..."

The FBI agent seemed to understand what she meant, because she almost glared at the desk, and at its absent occupant. There wasn't any heat in the glare, though; as if she had expected it.

"You wonder if anything you knew about him was real."

Sarah nodded, ill-at-ease.

"I used to be in a relationship with him, before I met Chuck. And now, I see you and your team, I see this conman, Mozzie, and how you react to Bryce's... Neal's abduction, and I wonder if even our friendships, mine, Chuck's, with Bryce were real. If we ever knew anything real about him."

 **oOo**

Neal tightened the bandage on his leg as he could one last time, and got up. One last look at the two dead – deadish? Who cared, when it got to this point? – attack dogs reminded him, again, of the loose screws in Daryl Riggs' head. He really had no idea of what what waiting for him next, but he didn't particularly want to find out. Unfortunately, it was either that or staying there until he died of... of whatever'd get him first. The lack of water, the lack of oxygen if Riggs had said the truth about the gas, the lack of care for his wound...

Walking on his injured leg made him wince badly. Neal kept himself standing, a hand against the wall, as he hissed to the earpiece.

"Is there an actual point, Riggs?"

Pushing on the wall, he took three careful steps before he started actually feeling his leg in an useful way; that is, not only in the pain of having had a large dog munching upon it, but also as an actual limb, with all its usual functions. A flash of... he couldn't actually describe it, besides pain. Funny how pain can't really be described. Bryce would know, Neal thought humorlessly.

It's painful, sure, but what does that mean? Not much, really. For a quick, lightning-fast pain... A change in sensations, perhaps. But aside from saying it was like this or similar to that one time you bumped against that one thing... What was pain? For a long, dull pain, that stays, and stays, and stays, until you can't say anymore how it is not to feel pain... it was just there, really.

You can do comparisons, but it stops there.

Neal was in pain, he knew that. And he needed to focus on something else. So he focused on walking a straight line to the door, at the end of the corridor. There was an elevator shaft, empty, next to it. A wonder there had even been a lift to begin with, in this neighborhood. A sign had been torn off the door, but Neal could guess it had to be the staircase, behind the door.

Or, he sure hoped it was, because he wasn't feeling like walking back in the direction of the other end of the corridor, not in the state he was in. Not that he was going to die from a bite wound – yet. But he thought it'd be better to keep his strength for something else. Like, Riggs' amusing little attractions.

Neal was pushing the door open, revealing, as he had thought, stairs, when he heard Riggs' voice.

" _Sorry, you were saying something? I was busy admiring the look of pain on your face, and the blood on your ruined pants. Also, may I say you look good, Larkin, for someone who left the job for so long? Your revealing attire, and by that I mean that beautifully torn-off sleeve of yours, tells me you haven't exactly lost much muscle. Then again, I guess your activities for the FBI do ask for a little fitness, from time to time... I heard you've jumped off a tram, what, two years ago? Ah, no, that wasn't official business, my bad... Hum. I think I've got side-tracked. You were saying?"_

Neal gritted his teeth, biting back a retort.

"Is there a point, Riggs?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the conversation, during which Neal started to go down the stairs. He spotted a camera in a corner, as if to tell him the game clearly wasn't finished yet. As if he'd believe otherwise.

" _I told you already, Larkin. You know a lot about boredom and reckless choices, don't you? ...And, as I said, because I can. I wouldn't be here if not for you, you know. I kind of resent that, you see."_

Walking down the stairs with an injured leg wasn't something Neal enjoyed very much. In fact, he totally hated it. So yes, his answer to the accusation wasn't completely diplomatic.

But, he figured with a dishonest smirk, it wasn't as if Riggs was really going to let him go anyway.

"Don't be so certain. Who knows what you'd have become had I not been there?"

The stairs finally ended. Neal took a moment to breathe, slowly, deeply, to ignore the pain, the left bracelet of his broken cuffs clinging against the wall as he leaned against it.

" _You're the one who got me on their radar, Larkin. Don't pretend otherwise."_

Neal walked past the door frame to the new floor – no door left, just a door frame, now, and a few ripped hinges. There was something off with the place, but he couldn't...

"I'm just saying you might have ended up being noticed anyway, Riggs. We'll never know."

There was no answer after that. The thing when someone got off the phone without actually stopping the call, was that you couldn't say whether or not they were still listening in.

And frankly, Neal didn't care right now. He took a tentative step inside, expecting, he didn't know what exactly, a hidden shooter, flying blades, honestly, he had no idea, but, something nonetheless. He couldn't tell what was wrong, but he could tell there was something not quite right on this floor. He just wasn't looking at the right thing... Or perhaps, he wasn't looking at it the right way.

No one tried to shoot him as he continued walking through the corridor. No one was hiding in an abandoned flat, no bengal tiger jumped for his throat – truly, at this stage, he wouldn't be surprised.

But, the floor did collapse under his feet.

Riggs had probably weakened the structure, he realized. Neal wondered, out of it, if there had been any small explosions reported to the police. If the feeds really were going to the FBI, then maybe Peter could figure out the neighborhood...

Neal blinked into the falling dust – he hadn't felt the fall, nor the landing. That was worrying.

He'd make sure to worry about it. Later. When the world would stop being so dark.

 **oOo**

Peter barely avoided punching the computer's screen, as it showed the large hole in the floor, where Neal had been standing only a moment before. It was the table which suffered his anger instead. Mozzie started, though Peter wasn't sure if it was because of him or because of the sound of the floor falling down over the video. The conman rushed next to him, the video in full screen mode on the FBI computer, when it was no more than a small window on "Chuck"'s laptop.

The video switched to the level beneath the preceding. Neal was lying, his eyes fluttering a bit more closed each second, with bits of the floor – the ceiling, now – under him... and some on top of him. Nothing hard and big landed on him, thankfully, but the fall itself might have done enough damage on its own. Neal could have hit his head, and there was no way to know if he had broken anything from this camera's angle, not as long as he'd be unconscious.

And, of course, the fact that the CI was now unconscious was enough of a danger in itself.

The crash of the floor hadn't been that loud, truth to be told, and since this building looked absolutely abandoned, Peter wasn't sure anyone would have heard it clearly from outside – that is, considering anyone would even bother reporting it.

On the other hand...

"Jones! Get someone to see if there was any police report of someone using small explosive charges in an abandoned building lately, without any visible reason. The building's probably been declared dangerous, at that. Because this, I tell you, it wasn't a normal floor collapse!"

The way the floor had just broken down under Neal's feet... No, coincidences didn't exist here, especially not after Daryl Riggs' other attempts against his friend's life.

"On it already, Boss."

Peter turned to look at the NSA agent – Diana and Sarah Carmichael were still outside, apparently "getting coffee". Peter wasn't sure he believed that, but well, Neal had a gift to make things complicated for everyone. He just didn't look forward to telling them what had happened while they were away...

The two women, of course, chose that moment to come back – likely alerted by the sudden agitation, and the mutted sound of something collapsing on itself, in the room.

Peter didn't hesitate, and redirected their questions to Chuck Carmichael and Mozzie by making himself unavailable; it was time, he thought, to actually ask what exactly had started all this.

And, perhaps, he didn't want to put what had just happened into words.

"Now, Colonel, I think it's time for you to spill; why the hell is Daryl Riggs that eager to play cat and mouse with Neal? I'd get it if it was to force him to get him out of the country, because Neal's very good at that game, but this is completely different. This is the work of a man who wants his enemy's life to end, in every possible way! This is the work of a man with a grudge!"

John Casey stared at Peter for a moment.

"Some of the information you're asking for is classified."

"I don't care for the details! I only need the general situation, so that I can actually deduce things!"

The colonel exchanged a look with Sarah Carmichael, who looked pale as death after having seen the current state of things. The woman glanced back at the video, still as a picture, of Neal, white with plaster dust, unconscious. Then she walked to take the picture of Daryl Riggs, her hands trembling just a bit, as if she was stopping herself from ripping it into shreds.

"The CIA and the NSA had diverging goals on a case a few years ago. One case, two opposing missions, two agents. Bryce managed, Riggs did not. And from what we gathered, that's what brought the Ring's attention on Daryl Riggs. Had he not failed that mission, he might not have been recruited, and he wouldn't be on the run right now. Perhaps. What Riggs became after that, it's all on him. He might have broken anyway, at some point. But to him, I suppose Bryce's responsible."

There wasn't much more to say about it, really.

Had Neal been there, he'd make a joke about how everything was always blamed on him, as if he was the root of all evils. Or perhaps he wouldn't, because that was a bit too close to the truth, and Neal never gave anything important away, not willingly, especially not his discomfort. Which was one of the reasons everyone always seemed to think he didn't care for the consequences. That he felt no remorse, no regrets. That he didn't hurt like everyone else.

Peter had always had a hard time remembering it. Right now he did. But Neal wasn't here.

"We need to find him..."

"Uh... Boss?"

The ASAC almost spinned around to look at Jones, who was frowning at a piece of paper.

"You found something about explosions?"

"No, not yet, I'm waiting for the reports. But I was thinking... If the CIA never caught on the whole Caffrey / Larkin thing, I doubt Riggs simply went to look for Neal and was lucky to know someone who knew something. But he was living in NYC these last months, and perhaps he just saw him on the street? Perhaps they went to the same coffee shop or something? And if he really resents Neal that much, I doubt he'd have waited long to start his game. He must have seen Neal only a few days ago, just the time for him to prepare his playground."

Peter's eyes lit up, just a bit, just enough. It was a tiny thread, and it might not succeed, but...

"That's worth looking into. Take a picture of him, and ask around Neal's usual hangouts."


	6. Struggling ( despite all )

_Once again, I'm not claiming any nerd or scientific accuracy here, so..._

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Struggling ( despite all )**

Time was ticking, and Sarah couldn't help but think about it. Time was ticking, and Bryce – Neal Caffrey – wasn't waking up. Nothing in the video seemed to move – nothing had, not since a long, long time. Too long a time. Agent Jones had been gone for more than an hour, now, and Bryce hadn't woken up since.

They could see, on the video, his unconscious form, dusted in white everywhere – even the dried blood on the man's head had taken a spooky, mealy look. The only thing that was kind of reassuring was that, even though Neal Caffrey had been lying there for a while, they couldn't see anything that looked like a pool of fresh blood anywhere. Then again, the camera only had one angle, and he could still be wounded even without bleeding. But that was one relief, if anything.

If Bryce – Neal Caffrey – didn't woke up soon, though, that relief would soon disappear.

Sarah could see it, in the way Agent Burke was gripping the table each time he didn't have anything to do. Most people here cared, and it wasn't getting any better. No new leads, Jones hadn't been able to get anything useful from the places Caffrey hanged out at for now, and time was still ticking.

Sarah was having more and more of a hard time focusing, to be frank. She just didn't know what to focus on – and the only thing she did actually focus on, was something she didn't want to dwell upon. Especially not as it wouldn't do a thing to help Bryce.

Had Bryce ever existed? How much of him had been real? Or, worse, how much of him had been fake? Sarah knew a lot about con artists, her own father being one, and having herself conned more than once in her childhood. Yet she couldn't imagine Bryce being one. It just... didn't make sense.

Why would anyone infiltrate the CIA, just like that, for fun? Or had there been more to it? Had she really missed Bryce's true nature, all along? Had she been blind to that point?

Did Neal Caffrey even care?

Chuck's yell of victory – subdued, sure, but definitely recognizable – startled the former CIA agent out of her thoughts quite badly. She wasn't the only one, from the look on Casey's face, as well as from the wary stances of Berrigan and Burke.

Chuck gave them all a sheepish smile when he noticed what he had just done, while the smallish man who said himself to be Caffrey's best friend, though Burke seemed not to agree on that, but, anyway – while "Mozzie" reached for his phone, already texting several people in his mind, probably. Sarah was pretty sure the man had more contacts in the streets than the FBI had CIs in the country, which was probably the reason why Agent Burke had allowed him to stay; he could be useful. That, and "Mozzie" hadn't seemed very open to the idea of waiting on the sidelines.

"I've got an address! I'm not saying it's the place where Bryce is, but I'm certain it's where the feeds come from. Riggs could very well be there too."

Peter Burke almost jumped out of his seat, but Agent Berrigan put a hand on his shoulder.

"Boss, You should stay here to supervise. I can go there, with, say, Sarah, see what we find, and report. If Riggs isn't half stupid, he relayed the videos, and Neal isn't anywhere near that place; but, if we're lucky, we could get a hand on him..."

Sarah glanced at Casey, to see what he thought of that pairing, but the NSA agent only shrugged; he didn't seem all that convinced that the rogue agent would be there, and would rather wait for something a bit more substancial. And, perhaps, he had seen how restless she was. Sending her to look at this lead might be for the best.

As for Agent Burke, he slumped back in his seat.

"...And you don't trust me not to shoot Riggs on sight, right, Diana?"

Sarah frowned at the accusation – not bitter; resigned, perhaps. Burke didn't exactly seem like the kind of man to shoot first, ask latter. In fact, he was probably the less hot-headed of the bunch.

Berrigan winced a bit, but didn't deny.

"It's Neal we're talking about. You shot Adler dead, when he was holding Neal at gunpoint."

It seemed to do the trick, because five minutes later, Sarah and Diana Berrigan were outside, on their way to the address Chuck had found. Agent Berrigan was driving, and Sarah was bracing herself for a ride of silence, but it didn't go that way.

Diana Berrigan spoke only one minute after the start of the ride.

"If there's one thing to know about Caffrey, it's that he cares, a lot, but he never thinks the others do too. Not for him, at least. He didn't have the best childhood, and when he became adult, all he learned was that everyone lied and his father wasn't a hero. Broken mother, criminal father, and not even his name was real. Neal... He never wanted to be someone bad, I think, but to him, it was as if he had been told he wasn't worth it anyway. So he went for the thrill, and forgot about people."

Sarah remembered her partner, never smiling, and for a moment, she wondered if it wasn't in the persona Bryce Larkin that Neal Caffrey had chosen to let his general distrust of mankind show.

"He never trusts anyone, does he?"

"Neal does trust people to be who they are. Take Peter, for example. Neal trusts him to go after him if he leaves, he trusts him to try and help no matter what, he trusts him not to accuse him of doing something he'd never do, like, say, unwarranted murder... But Neal will never trust Peter to believe in him when everything points to him. Because Peter knows Neal better than anyone, and Neal's able to do a lot, and whether or not he'll chose to... Well, it always depends on many things."

There was a moment of silence, yet the FBI agent was the one to talk again.

"If you want to know whether or not Neal cared for you and your friends, you shouldn't look at how much of himself he let you see, but at how much he did for you. All in all, Neal doesn't trust people blindly, and he does everything not to have to ask them for things he knows they won't want to do, but he's able to sacrifice a lot for them when he cares. He'll even make himself look like the bad guy if it'll ease your feelings."

Sarah bit her lower lip, already seeing too much of Bryce in Neal Caffrey... or was it the contrary?

 **oOo**

Something was pounding at his head.

Neal grimaced, eyes still closed, and the sound of his own blood making a ruckus in his head. He was hurting everywhere, to a point he wasn't really aware of his own body anymore. What he felt right now, wasn't his legs, his arms, his back, but the hurt and the pain in them.

He slowly opened his eyes, with difficulty; he wanted to sleep a bit more. He couldn't, though. He knew sleeping wasn't the solution, particularly not in his situation. He couldn't go back to sleep, no matter how tiring getting up would be. No matter how painful.

Everything around here was dusty, and he himself felt rusty. Wasn't that perfect?

Neal grabbed a broken piece of... ceiling? Floor? Who cared? – as he tried to push himself up and back on his feet. The whole space around him was littered with debris, he noticed, and he was almost happy not to be in pieces too. Almost, because while he wasn't, he certainly felt like it.

He closed his eyes more than once, as his knees touched the ground, making him deeply aware that there was a large tear in the left leg of his pant, and scratched skin undernearth, if not bleeding; as his hand slipped on a bit of torn metal, which tore open one good inch of skin across two fingers; as his shoulder reminded him, without reason, just like that, of the wall-breaking from earlier.

The pain was tolerable, of course, but it wasn't pleasant for all that. Neal did a rapid account of his various injuries and otherwise. Nothing terrible, nothing broken, and no big, bleeding, gaping hole anywhere, which, he had to admit, was a surprise. But everything still hurt, he had several minor injuries, scratches here and there, and the dog bite was itching more and more.

He didn't have anything life-threaening, granted, but the pain in itself might be enough to keep him from getting out of here if he wasn't quick enough. Neal gritted his teeth, and walked. Just... walked. He needed to get out, and walking seemed like the best – and only – option right now.

Or, of course, there was begging Riggs to let him out, but that was out of question. First of all, because there was no way the former NSA agent would agree to help him out, not after having done all this. Second, because Neal was ready to do a lot of things, but he had a very, very high self-esteem. And, granted, a rather low survival instinct.

So he walked. It hurt, it wasn't easy, but again, nothing had ever been in his life. Even if he often pretended not to care, even if he was able to enjoy the simplest joys of life on a daily basis, in the end, deep down, the distrust was still here. Even if he had learned to appreciate what he had, it didn't mean everything was easy.

What was easy was to pretend nothing mattered. The pain, right now? It didn't matter.

Neal wondered how long it had been since Riggs had gotten him abducted by some lowlife, who probably didn't even know who he was, why someone had paid him to do what he had done, and what was happening to him right now. Someone who didn't care, as long as they got the money.

If there was one thing he prided himself in, it was never having done things like that. He didn't really care for money, even if he liked having some, and things like that...? Neal wasn't deluding himself into thinking his crimes made no victims, but his victims deserved what was coming to them, or they could afford the loss, or, at the very least, they never died because of him.

What was Peter doing right now? Was he turning the city over searching of him? Was he cooped up in his office, trying to guess where, out of town, he could be? Was he... Was he even looking for him? Why should Neal believe Daryl Riggs when he said the videos were all sent to the FBI? After all... Neal had been planning to flee, and Peter knew him well enough to realize that. For once, even, the man might not hold it against him. After what they had both learned of the Bureau's plan for him... Did Neal really have another choice?

The thought almost froze him from the inside. Perhaps Peter wasn't looking for him, because Riggs had lied, and Peter thought he had gone of his own accord, and, for once, the FBI agent, since all other solutions had failed, was letting him leave. It didn't seem likely, but perhaps...

Perhaps no one was looking for him, and he'd just die here, all alone, to Riggs' pleasure.

A painful sneer parted Neal's lips at how history might be repeating itself.

The earpiece chose that moment to sizzle, as Riggs finally spoke into his ear again. Neal didn't even have it in him to wince or start this time. His mind hurted just as much as his body right now, and a bit more, a bit less, what did it change, really?

" _Ah, you're awake, Larkin!"_

"Not thanks to you, Riggs."

The psycho on the other end of the phone call ignored his latest jibe cheerfully, which resulted in Neal being even more annoyed with him than before. There really didn't seem to be a limit to it.

" _I was worried you wouldn't wake up soon enough. Time was running out, you know."_

Which didn't seem all that surprising to Neal, but the way Riggs was saying it... It didn't bode well.

"What do you mean, 'Time was running out'?"

" _Well, technically, it is still running out, because, you know, the bomb hasn't been deactivated or anything, but since you're awake... Perhaps you'll be able to do something about it, who knows?"_

Neal stopped dead in his tracks, the silence around him now even more ominous.

"You've planted a bomb in NYC, Riggs?! You're completely off your rocker! Riggs? Riggs!?"

But the man wasn't answering, and Neal suspected he didn't care.

With no idea of how much time was left before the end of the timer, and in no condition to do anything as dangerous as defusing a bomb... Neal needed to get out of here. Fast.

 **oOo**

Peter threw his pen far, far away, across the room, not really caring where it ended up at this point, the moment he heard Riggs' declaration about, of all things, a bomb.

"This man is out of his mind!"

"Chuck" Carmichael was staring at his screen, unable to say a thing, gaping a bit at the last statement from the rogue NSA agent they were pursuing, the colonel was grunting something, probably aggressive and slightly insulting, into his phone, and Mozzie looked completely lost as to what to do, barely managing not to frantically grip the FBI agent and demand that something be done to find Neal and throw Daryl Riggs down a hole out of which he'd never walk. Peter had a sneaking suspicion that should Riggs ever escape them, he'd end up with a price on his head, just like Keller a few years ago – and for once, perhaps, Peter wouldn't disapprove, not that he'd ever confess to such a thought.

Carmichael was the first one to get a grip back – since, you know, the colonel hadn't ever lost it, though he had lost his tamper.

"Alright, alright, no need to panic. We have no idea how much time is left, which means we could still have the time to find Bryce and disarm that bomb. We have no idea how destructive that bomb is, so for all we know, it could just touch the building Bryce is in, and not have any... 'unpleasant' side-effects. We have no idea, finally, whether or not there's really a bomb. So perhaps that's just Riggs trying to rile us up, especially Bryce. I mean, he said things about gas, but so far I haven't seen anything in Bryce's behavior that'd let us think Riggs really let gas out. He might be just bluffing."

The colonel finished his phone call at that moment, looking grim.

"I wouldn't count on it, Chuck. Apparently Riggs is good with explosive devices, and while I think you're right to say he probably didn't make a dirty, or very powerful bomb, it's likely that this building will, at least partially, explode sooner or latter. As for the gas, apparently he likes to make small bombs, without much danger, and make them explode in gassed area. And it doesn't have to be something with an obvious effect on the human behavior."

There was a moment of silence, which Carmichael spent staring at the NSA agent.

"He does what with what?"

"Small bomb. Flammable gas. Everything goes boom. Is that simple enough for you, Nerd?"

Before anyone could question Daryl Riggs' sanity – again – Peter's phone rang.

"Jones. Found anything?"

" _Someone recognized the photo in a coffee shop Neal likes. I'm sure Riggs found him by accident."_

"Which means we probably don't have to worry about anyone else coming after Neal, if no one told Riggs where to find 'Bryce Larkin'. That's better than nothing. Try to get an address, or whatever you get, and then call before coming back here. Diana and Sarah Walker are on another lead."

Peter didn't mention the bomb right away, because that was something he felt he needed to tell Jones once he'd be there, and not just before he tried to get more information on Daryl Riggs' possible location. As long as Jones called back before doing anything, should he learn something...

The FBI agent took a moment to calm down, then thought about Diana, who was probably already near a bomber's hideout...

Her phone rang twice before she picked up the call.

" _Boss, I was going to call you. We're in something that looks like a safehouse of some sort. Definitely Riggs', if the photos of Neal on the wall are anything to go by. No Riggs, but Sarah found the computer which is relaying the feeds. She's calling her husband, to get his help in finding the original location of the cameras. We should have something usable in no time."_

And indeed, Carmichael had just taken a call, and was mumbling something unintelligible from where Peter was standing into his phone, typing frantically as he spoke.

Peter sighed, relieved for Diana and the other woman, if not for Neal yet.

"Glad to hear that, especially as it means you're alright. Riggs claims to have planted a bomb in the building where Neal is kept prisoner, and I thought..."

" _You wondered if he had set up anything where we are. No, no, we're alright. But, Boss..._

The hesitancy in Diana's voice awoke Peter's anxiety once again, and he knew it wasn't about the bomb. She wouldn't say anything about it, she wouldn't feel the need to remind him of the danger Neal was still in, because she knew very well how aware of it he was. Of the fact that even if they found Neal's location, it could be too late by the time they got here, and if it wasn't yet... They could be caught up in the explosion while trying to help Neal. But her wavering wasn't about that.

"An idea, Diana?"

A silence. Short.

" _If Riggs isn't in his safehouse, watching the show, Boss, I see only one place he could want to be right now. He doesn't need a second safehouse, or at least, not one where he'd have the same tools to watch Neal's progression."_

Peter closed his eyes, realizing all too well what Diana was implying.

"You think he's on site, just far enough that the explosion won't hurt him."

Meaning, just close enough that should Neal escape, Riggs would still be able to hurt him.


	7. Rushing ( obviously )

_So... someone murdered my compure's screen ( *whisper* Sorry... ), but here is the new chapter, full of fire, blood and pain! Wow, that sounds sick..._

* * *

 **Chapter 7: Rushing ( obviously )**

Typing was something Chuck could do with his eyes closed – hacking wasn't. He of course needed to look at the screen, to see what happened when he did this or that.

Right now, he could tell he had almost made it. Only a few more minutes and, unless the guy whom Daryl Riggs had hired was a secret genius who twisted his work at the end, he'd have an address from the video feed.

He wasn't sure what he felt about that. He didn't question the necessity to find Neal Caffrey, nor did he resent the man for having to be found, but he wasn't sure what it'd bring him, personally, to find the man who wasn't – who had never been – his best friend. He wasn't sure what Caffrey would say to him – if he'd even talk to him.

The more he looked into Neal Caffrey – Chuck had gotten a glimpse of his FBI file and was now processing it thanks to the Intersect in his head – the more he felt like he had failed Bryce Larkin. Chuck had thought himself Bryce's friend... No matter how much Bryce hadn't been real, the fact that he hadn't seen anything, it surely meant something about how good a friend he was. Neal Caffrey was a good forger, that much was certain, and not only of IDs and art pieces; when he tried, he was a frighteningly good faker at being someone else. But it shouldn't have stopped Chuck, or Sarah, from seeing that there was more to him than just Bryce Larkin. They had known the man for too long, for it to be only a con.

Bryce Larkin wasn't Neal Caffrey, Chuck could say that only by looking at the two files, but there was a lot of Caffrey in his old friend.

Chuck... Chuck had only been able to see the surface. Perhaps that was the reason Neal Caffrey hadn't seen the point of coming back, again, and tell him that he was still alive. Because Chuck hadn't ever seen past the mask.

Here, in Manhattan, working with the FBI – because Neal Caffrey didn't work for anyone, even if you put a tracker on him – Bryce had made himself a life. He had people who cared for him, people who, if they didn't approve of all his life choices, still saw more in him than just another CI. They had their own flaws, certainly, and Chuck wouldn't be surprised if, from time to time, Caffrey was at odds with the agents. But at least they cared. They were his friends... And those who weren't, were his colleagues, and not only federal agents he had to deal with reluctantly. Chuck could tell, from the way several agents, other than Burke, Berrigan and Jones, had come in from time to time, asking if there was something they could do, some way they could help.

Or, simply, worrying if the CI was still alive.

Why would Caffrey want to be Bryce again, when he had all this? Bryce had nothing. No friends, no lover, no life. Neal Caffrey had it all – even if, from what Chuck had heard, his love life had recently taken a blow.

Chuck squinted at his laptop's screen.

He finally had an address.

"Bingo! Guys, I know where Riggs is keeping him. I'm sending you the address."

Agent Burke checked the location with his phone immediately, all ready to head out for the Bronx. Chuck was about to follow him – he may have failed Bryce Larkin, but he had yet to fail Neal Caffrey – when Casey stopped him with a hand to his chest and a grave look on his face - though, with Casey, it was hard to tell, since every facial expression looked kind of like a mildly angered scowl; but Chuck had gotten good at deciphering the NSA agent's looks of pent-up rage.

"What are you doing, Casey?"

The colonel hissed back at him, to keep the FBI agents' attention off them for now. Burke was too busy ordering someone to monitor the search while he was heading out, since Jones and Berrigan weren't back yet, but there were other people here, and he didn't particularly want to be overheard.

"Let me remind you, Chuck, that your former best friend is also a criminal who infiltrated the CIA. It's serious enough that we might all end up in trouble if we don't find anything more and he just disappears. So while I am going with Burke, you're staying here, focusing on whatever Caffrey did to manage being Bryce Larkin, and staying under the radar; You're the nerd; so nerd out."

Chuck almost didn't protest, conflicted at first. But he had to go. He had to meet Neal Caffrey for himself. He needed to see the man was still alive.

The younger man steeled himself, and confronted the NSA agent's glare – default setting.

"Count me out on this one, Casey. I have to go and see for myself that Neal Caffrey doesn't die because of Daryl Riggs. Morevover, he'll probably need to go to the hospital for a time. We'll have the time to investigate his motives later on."

Casey snorted, but his hand fell back, leaving the path clear for Chuck.

"As if Larkin wouldn't be able to escape from a hospital if he wanted..."

Chuck walked past him, rolling his eyes. Sure, Caffrey could probably disappear anyway, but that wouldn't change whether or not he started to look into his case right away.

"Given what we saw of his last hours, I'm positive he'll be unconscious for a while if we can get him to a hospital. Bryce might be very good, but he's not good enough to escape the CIA or the NSA agents Beckman will undoubtedly assign to him by sleep walking."

"Alright, but you're sticking with Burke. He'll probably go for Caffrey. Me, I'll be looking for Riggs."

Chuck and Casey stared at each other for a second.

A young FBI agent, probably one or two years younger than Chuck, knocked on the glass wall next to them. It broke the staring contest immediately.

"Say, if you two want to follow Peter, you'd better get to it, because he's leaving with Haversham."

 **oOo**

Neal had walked down two flights of stairs, and was pretty sure he had to be close enough to ground level, by now. Only a few more minutes, and he'd be out of this damned building – that is, if Riggs hadn't condemned the doors too, as he had the windows. Then it'd take several more minutes.

And Neal wasn't sure he had these minutes.

He knew the buildings in this area; he couldn't be higher than third floor by now, not with the floors he had already walked down. Now, that was considering that Riggs had first jailed him on the top floor, which wasn't certain, though logical. The bomb, if there was one, was probably closer to the ground – better to destroy the bottom than the top, since the top would come down too if the bottom collapsed. Which meant that Neal was probably getting closer to the bomb as he headed for the exit.

He'd have done without – then again, he'd have done without being abducted too. The other solution to get out without coming too much closer to the potential exploding device was not one he could afford in his state – namely, beating open a window and jumping. Too high, too long, too strenuous.

So he was going for the front door, hoping he'd be out before the bomb exploded.

Just as he turned around to take yet another flight of stairs, Neal noticed a stream of natural light which made his heart leap. So far, he had only seen artificial lights, to make up for the closed windows, when there had actually been lights.

He glanced back at the stairs, but his curiosity was too strong, and his hope in too much need of some sunlight, some fresh air. The conman headed for the stream of light – at this point, it was a miracle he wasn't limping, but he'd take any miracle he was offered.

Neal turned into a ruined apartment, from where the light was coming.

He took in the room with a wry, broken smile, which he was certain had been recorded by the camera that was there, just on top of the open window. Just above the rectangle of sunlight, the square of blue sky and the other abandoned buildings in sight. The camera spying on him, again.

But Neal wasn't looking at the sky, at the outside world, at the window, not anymore.

No, he was looking at the device that stood in the middle of the room, in front of the window, just so that it was in the camera's angle. His eyes were fixed on the bomb – why shouldn't they?

 _00:27_

Twenty seven seconds before the end. And here he was, standing next to it.

Should he thank Riggs for offering him one last look at the outside, at liberty, through that window, as he was standing before a bomb, ready to explode? Should he thank Daryl Riggs? Should he? Was it a gift... Or was it yet another taunt?

 _00:24_

Neal glanced one last time at the window, and turned back. He walked two steps. Turned back again, facing the bomb, facing the window.

He needed to forget the pain, even more so than before. He needed to focus.

 _00:22_

Suddenly, Neal broke into a run. As fast as he could – Peter always said he ran fast, faster than most, but here he didn't have much space to gain momentum, nor the time to, really. He just hoped it'd be enough. He hoped he'd be fast enough.

 _00:21_

No time to turn around the bomb. Better to simply jump over it, and hope he'd land well enough to continue, despite his wounded thigh, and the fact that his sight was starting to blur.

 _00:20_

The shock when his feet landed back on the floor was hard, but nothing compared to what he was about to do. He was lucky it was only the first floor, from what he could see throught the window. In his state, he wasn't even sure he'd survive with it being only the first floor.

 _00:19_

The moment he crashed through the window, the world went numb – it really was a recurring occurrence, lately, he'd have to be careful. For half a second he felt dozens of shards of glass slicing through his skin, cutting his flesh, tearing him apart, deep enough to hurt a lot. He was almost certain he had a broken piece of window in his right hand.

Then it wasn't hurting anymore – perhaps it was just too much, and he was already too hurt, he wasn't registering anymore.

Neal managed to land on his feet, again, about three meters lower from where he had jumped, but barely. The pain came back suddenly, without warning, and he fell to the ground.

He had just ruined his left ankle. Broken or simply twisted, he wasn't sure.

He slowly checked no big glass shard had embedded itself in any very dangerous, very lethal artery. He thought he'd probably know if it was the case, but well, everything was hurting everywhere, and he had a hard time focusing. But no, he was cut, bleeding, a sight, surely, but mostly unhurt.

Except he couldn't walk. Or stay upright anymore.

Not that it would have been better to be standing when the blast from the bomb reached him. At least, that way, he already was on the ground; he didn't have to fall down. The heat and the sound were enough to worsen his state, though.

Ears ringing, Neal tried to look behind him. Half the building had collapsed on itself, and the ground floor was engulfed in a raging fire. That, at least, would get the firemen on site...

He didn't hear the footsteps coming his way, but he felt the gun pushing against the back of his head. Neal wanted to turn around, and look Daryl Riggs in the eyes as the man was preparing to kill him. He couldn't. Just like he couldn't hear the rogue NSA agent's last words to him.

 **oOo**

Peter jumped out of his car, not even bothering with parking it correctly – he didn't have the time, and, frankly, the whole area was abandoned anyway. He could only stare at the collapsed building, at the fire that was raging, two block of flats away, for a moment. From where he was, he couldn't see if there was anyone outside, but for now, the place looked pretty deserted.

They had heard the blast only seconds before, and Peter had dangerously swerved while driving – not that he had been the only one in the street to. Now he was here, and he needed to do something. He vaguely heard Carmichael asking Mozzie to stay back here, and wait for the ambulance they had called ahead of time to arrive, and the NSA colonel saying he was going to find a location with a better sight of the place, just so that Riggs couldn't try to escape in the chaos.

Peter snapped out of it when the fire blared loudly, and a part of the exploded building collapsed yet again, just a bit more. He had to go there, and see if...

Perhaps Neal had gotten out.

The FBI agent ignored Charles Carmichael, as the man yelled at him to wait, to be careful. The man would follow, or wouldn't, he didn't really care. For now, Peter needed to find Neal.

He ran around the nearest building, and found himself in sight of the damaged building.

His eyes immediately zeroed on the two figures he could see, a few meters away from the chaos. Two people, one on the ground, the other standing – something in their hand. Peter reached for his gun, and ran yet a bit faster.

The racket of the collapsing building covered his advance, he guessed, because the man left standing didn't react. A good thing, probably, as Peter now knew for sure that the thing in his hand was a gun – not that he hadn't guessed beforehand.

He recognized Daryl Riggs, even from behind. He had stared at the last CCTV shot of him for long enough while worrying about Neal.

The other person was Neal, no doubt about it; covered in more blood than Peter had ever seen on a crime scene, looking tired, broken, even, but still Neal. Still alive.

But with a gun to his head.

Peter raised his weapon, aimed it at Daryl Riggs, and was about to speak up, to ask for him to drop the gun and surrender, as he was supposed to do – even if it was Neal with the gun to his head, even if... – but Riggs spoke first. Peter barely heard the words, as the man was facing the other way, and the blare of the fire was providing a background music of chaos.

"Really, Larkin, you don't know when to die."

The shot resounded badly to Peter's ears.

Daryl Riggs, rogue NSA agent, fell without another word – without even triggering his own gun, most likely because he hadn't been pressing the trigger yet. About to, surely, but not yet.

Neal's eyes moved with difficulty past the body, onto Peter, who had let go of his gun as soon as he had realized he'd shot Riggs. The weapon fell to the ground with a loud clang, but it went unnoticed in the general chaos. Especially as Peter was now rushing to Neal's side.

"Can... can you move? I don't like how close to that fire you are right now."

Neal blinked at his best friend, not totally sure of what he had heard – his sense of hearing was still pretty shaken from the explosion. His throat was dry, too.

"Sor... Sorry. Twisted my ankle. And I... don't feel my other leg. And..."

He wasn't sure what else anymore. The only reason he hadn't fainted yet was because he had the vague idea it might not be the best thing to do now, even if he wasn't sure why anymore. The ambulance siren he somehow distinguished in the background sounds had something to do with it, Neal was certain, but...

"Alright, alright. Just... I know it's not the best, but I'd really feel better if I could drag you, say, five feet away at least, just the time for the ambulance workers to get here. I mean, sure, it might worsen something, but at least you wouldn't be roasted...?"

Luckily for Peter, Chuck and Mozzie arrived with the medics just at that moment.

"Bry... Neal! You're still alive!"

The look the young man got from his former friend wasn't exactly kind, but perhaps it had to do with his choice of words. Peter left them alone, just the time to watch one of the medics check Riggs' pulse – no point there, with the clear bullet hole in his back, and the amount of blood, but the FBI agent guessed you never knew, and the ambulance worker certainly didn't want to have to explain why no one had taken care of someone who wasn't dead yet.

Satisfied that they didn't have a second patient, the medic turned to look at Peter, taking in his badge and his apparent lack of wounds.

"You're alright, sir?"

"Yea... yeah. Just... take care of Neal, would you? I'm going to..."

Peter didn't know what he was going to do, but it seemed to be enough for the ambulance worker, who went to assist his colleague. The FBI agent's gaze wandered over the scene, the fire, the ruins, the crowd they had attracted, but who still kept well away from the chaos, just in case – kids, recording the whole thing with their cellphones, as if they had nothing better to do.

Ah, right. He needed to get his gun back.


	8. Cheating ( as always )

**Chapter 8: Cheating ( as always )**

Casey gave the hospital room where Larkin laid unconscious one last glance.

Walker, Burke and "Mozzie" were sitting in a corner of the room, obviously anxious – a nurse had tried to get them out, but the moleman had chased her away with surprising efficience. Jones, Berrigan and Bartowski were waiting in the corridor – the colonel suspected that the nerd didn't dare enter the hospital room, even if he really wanted to. No issue then, if anything happened, there was more than enough brawl here.

They had been told Larkin – Caffrey – should wake up shortly now, after a few hours of deserved sleep – Casey might not like the man, it didn't mean he was that obstuse as to deny him a rightful acknowledgment.

Larkin had a broken ankle – "twisted, sure, Caffrey" Berrigan had hissed under her breath – two bruised ribs, extended contusions, a bite wound on his thigh, several splinters in his right hand, a concussion – figures, with the way the floor had collapsed under him – platter dust in his lungs – because it wasn't fun if the guy didn't collect all the possible injuries, right? – and many cuts from the broken window. That seemed like a lot, but Casey had seen Daryl Riggs' escape hell, and really, Larkin was lucky to even be alive. No major wounds, at that.

It'd still hurt like a bitch, though.

The nurses and doctors had been a bit put off when the ambulance had arrived, actually. They weren't sure where to begin. But once they had heard why their new patient was literally covered in cuts and blood and various injuries, they had been able to tend to the most urgent – like, getting the glass shards out of Caffrey before he bled to death.

Casey didn't particularly care being there for Larkin's coming back to consciousness.

And there was someone he needed to see, so he left the others at the hospital, and went down to the parking area. A woman was waiting there for him, standing before a car with blackened windows.

She opened the car door for him.

Casey entered the vehicle, and found himself sitting before Diane Beckman, NSA general. His superior. Who had come all the way to New York City as soon as she could, to look into the Larkin Issue – everything about Larkin was an issue, Casey felt, but well...

"I trust you secured Agent Larkin, Colonel?"

"Two of the men you sent are keeping an eye on his hospital room."

"Good."

There was a short time of silence, General Beckman looking in the vague.

"General, what do we do about Larkin?"

The woman shook her head, as if to chase unwanted thoughts – about Graham, with whom she had worked for a time, about the two years Bryce Larkin had been working for both of them. Except for that one time when Bryce Larkin had been assumed a traitor – and it had been explained – the agent had been a model operative. His cases were airtight – or, as much as a CIA operation could be. Nothing pointed to him having ulterior motives...

And yet, here she was, wondering what to do about Bryce Larkin.

Wondering what to do about Neal Caffrey.

"The CIA will soon send someone too; no decision is to be taken meanwhile. But we can start interrogating him. Aside from his own guilt, we still need to know how he managed to trick all background checks. There is no way the CIA will be happy to find the cracks in their system, but they will want to put an end to them. We should also make sure Caffrey hasn't done more than hiding himself when he was pretending to be an agent."

"Interrogation, then."

"Of course."

"And, probably, at the end of the day, he'll be forgotten in some unofficial CIA black site, won't he? Like Daniel Shaw before him... not that it stopped him from causing trouble."

The general gave her subordinate a sharp look. Casey didn't react – they both knew what he had meant by that comment.

"Are you suggesting Neal Caffrey should better be taken care of?"

"I am not suggesting anything, General. It's not difficult to guess what his future is going to be if the CIA doesn't like his answers to their questions. And jail time, as secured as it can be, will not be it; because whether or not Neal Caffrey had a hidden agenda all along, he still proved he was trouble enough not to even be noticed."

"We'll see, I guess."

Casey was about to leave the car – Beckman still had people to see before "meeting" Neal Caffrey, like, say, relevant agents of the FBI.

"Wait a minute, Colonel."

He stopped short of pushing the car door open, and turned around slightly to face the general again.

"Yes, General?"

"Bryce Larkin could be trusted, but Larkin was only a layer of Caffrey's identities. We do not know Neal Caffrey, and so there is no way we could trust his word or his intentions. But there is someone who knows Caffrey better than most, and whom we should be able to trust. Of course, federal agents aren't always trustworthy, even if they're supposed to be..."

"You want me to take a look at Burke's file?"

"No, Colonel Casey, I'll be doing that. You, in the meantime, get Burke to speak about his partner."

Casey agreed, and left the car. He needed to get back to Caffrey's room before Walker or Bartowski realized in how much shit Larkin had gotten himself, and decided the unconscious man needed to be taken to a safer, and secret, place.

 **oOo**

Neal opened his eyes about three minutes after he woke up.

First it had been the sounds. Hushed voices, whispering far away from his ears, but present.

Then it had been a weird taste on his tongue – medicine, his addled brain surmised, but right now he couldn't tell what kind. He was in too much pain to...

Actually, no. Neal's sense of touch was completely numb. He felt things, like the sheets upon his body, but it was more that he was aware of their presence than really feeling it. There was a sense of touch, no question – but it didn't supply any details.

He couldn't manage to move either. He hoped it wasn't because he was paralyzed...? Neal didn't remember any injury that grave, but he wasn't sure of what he remembered either, so...

No, certainly he wasn't paralyzed. He just... wasn't up to moving, and since he couldn't feel his body for now, he wasn't receiving the painful signal of injured refusal. That must be it. Yeah, definitely. He wasn't paralyzed. Positive thinking, positive, Neal. He was just so broken he couldn't move yet.

Right, because that was being positive...

The voices grew clearer.

Neal smelled the cleanliness – too clean, perhaps, aggressively clean – of a hospital, mixed with the alarmingly familiar smell of blood.

A man, and a woman, speaking low.

He forced his eyes open – not easy when he felt like his eyelids had been stitched together.

Even if Neal didn't actually blink – too tiring, too hard, and he wasn't even sure he'd blink if he tried right now – the sudden light of the room – everything had been that weirdly reddish darkness when he had been keeping his eyes closed, but it wasn't anymore – had him seeing invading lights and shadows as if he was keeping on blinking. It took him a few more minutes for his sight to focus correctly, to stop giving him a show of lights and shadows.

He had gotten his visitors' attention, too, because while everything blinked between black and white, Neal heard the shuffle of feet coming his way.

So when he actually started seeing things, it was, to his great surprise, to be greeted by the stern, and more than a bit annoyed-looking, faces of Diana Berrigan and John Casey. The two tough members of both teams. Oh joy.

Diana kind of made sense – even if she was easily annoyed by Neal's antics, she did care for him enough. Casey didn't. Of the three members of Team Castle who had come over to New York, for all Neal knew, he'd have expected either Chuck or Sarah to be there when he'd wake up, perhaps both... But certainly not Casey.

Time to speak up and defend his case, it seemed.

"Before any of you two thinks of making me pay for my secrets... Please, don't kill me."

The two naturally aggressive individuals raised both eyebrows at that – and, maybe Neal hadn't articulated the two sentences quite right, medicine and a general drowsiness of his body oblige, but he was certain it had been understandable enough. His mouth and tongue might be bordering on falling asleep without his consent, but his ears were working just fine, thank you very much.

Casey snorted and took a step back.

"You do realize how deeply in trouble you are right now, Larkin... Sorry, 'Caffrey'? I don't particularly care for your secrets, but your former employers surely do."

Because, obviously, Neal was very glad to have been found and taken to a hospital... But it also meant everyone knew about his biggest con – the most dangerously reckless one, too.

Oh, Neal was seeing his whole future scrolling past his eyes; it mostly consisted of an underground jail cell, and much boredom. He guessed that was what he got for doing whatever he wanted.

...But it had been so much fun...

"Totally worth it."

The face Diana pulled at that comment made him aware he had probably – surely – said that one out loud. Damn. He was blaming it on the morphine.

The FBI agent disappeared from his field of view for a moment – Neal was awake, alright, but there was no way he'd manage to move his head even a little bit, to follow her movements.

She came back with a piece of paper in her hands, and read him the list of his injuries, and other physical inconveniences. Neal made a point of remembering how exactly he had gotten each one of these wounds and other bruises, just in case he was forgetting something of what had happened because of Daryl Riggs – but nope, his memory worked just fine. That, at least, was a relief.

And, really, it could have been worst. Like, he could be dead. Or agonizing. Which he wasn't. So, good enough, Neal'd say. Unless that was Bryce speaking?

Diana looked back at him, eyebrows still raised and disbelieving.

"So, let me resume: on top of this rather interesting list of 'physical inconveniences', I'm quoting you on that one, you're being accused of having infiltrated the CIA and faked your death to disappear. You'll probably be taken, never to be seen again, to some unknown and ultra-secret black site by the end of this story. And you still think the adventure was worth the problems?"

Neal gave his friend a blinding smile – perhaps this one was more bruised than blinding, with what had happened, but he was a guy who thought intent mattered more than facts.

"I'll talk my way out of this, don't worry."

He'd have added "YOLO", but neither Neal nor Bryce were that kind of guys – and, really, Diana had a point, even if he wouldn't admit it. He was in very, very deep shit.

 **oOo**

Peter came back from the hospital's cafeteria with Sarah Carmichael around three in the afternoon. They had left the others down here, except Mozzie who had fled the hospital as soon as he had been sure Neal wasn't in any grave danger. Jones was about to go back to the office, anyway, and Sarah's husband didn't seem able to decide yet whether he wanted to flee or be there for when his former friend would wake up. The NSA colonel and Diana had stayed in the room, in case Neal woke up while they were getting something to eat.

The two stopped when they arrived in the vicinity of Neal's room.

That voice... It was low, a bit raw, and it fell into an awkward silence from time to time, but it was Neal's voice. The idiot was alive – sorry, awake. Not two words to get mixed up, Peter.

Peter and Sarah Carmichael shared a glance, then looked back at the door, closely guarded by two men dressed in black – another reason why Mozzie had fled, Peter didn't doubt. The colonel had said the NSA had sent them to keep an eye on the terribly volatile Neal Caffrey, aka CIA Agent Bryce Larkin – killed in action.

Because obviously Neal had to secretly be a dead CIA agent. Which wouldn't be such an issue, truth be told, if it was actually the case, and not the other way around. Because as it was, Agent Bryce Larkin was Neal Caffey, and not the contrary. Which meant Neal was going to have to explain waaaay too many things.

And nothing'd go happily ever after.

Now that there was no Daryl Riggs pointing a death flag at his best friend, Peter was beginning to truly realize the mountain of problems Neal had buried himself under – wait, mountains, plural. And this time, there was nothing Peter could do to help him, except perhaps testifying that Neal had done what he had done without meaning ill. Which was clearly not enough.

Sarah Carmichael passed the door, and Peter followed her. He wasn't exactly sure of what to say to Neal, now. What did you say in these situations? – this situation, singular, because Peter was pretty sure no such situation had ever happened before, and it wouldn't ever happen again.

Peter saw Diana seeking his eyes; he nodded quietly, and the other agent left the room discreetly. The NSA agent, John Casey, squinted at Neal for half a second, before following Diana outside.

"Don't try anything, Larkin, I'm staying outside that door."

Neal made a face, and grumbled a reply.

"Oh, don't worry, Casey, I'm more than aware that you'll kill me again if I try to crawl out of here..."

Which only got a disapproving look from Sarah Carmichael, and a deadpan from the retreating colonel. Peter, on the other hand, was getting a bit uncomfortable; he probably had every reason to be, considering the exchange had more or less implied that Neal had actually died at some point in his life – revived, obviously, but still... – and that John Casey had been the one to kill him.

When the door closed behind the man, Peter could only get a relieved sigh out.

Sarah Carmichael, on the other hand, didn't seem ready to relax.

Not that she had any reason to, not after everything she had learned about Bryce Larkin and Neal Caffrey during the last twenty-four hours. Peter wasn't blind, and the blonde wasn't exactly bothering to hide it: Bryce and her had been close, once upon a time. Learning that he wasn't real...

Peter wasn't sure how he'd feel, if the roles had been reversed. If Neal had been the fake, and Bryce the genuine personality. If he had been the one to be fooled.

She crossed her arms, and stared Neal in the eyes.

"If you're not Bryce, then who was he?"

The injured man winced – Peter couldn't tell if it was an actual, deliberate wince, or if he had been trying to do something else and the pain had made itself known again.

"You know how it goes, Sarah. An alias isn't ever completely true, nor completely false. If it helps, I never had any objective when I used the mask of Bryce Larkin... So, even if I'm not exactly Bryce, everything I told you, not about me, but about us, about what I wanted... it was the truth. I didn't have a goal to achieve, a mission to complete, which mean I had no reason to pretend. That's the best I can offer you."

Neal stopped looking at the blond woman, his gaze turning to the window, looking at the sky.

"I... Bryce was fake, but I was there behind the mask, all the time. And I may be a conman, but I don't like lying about important things. Relationships are important. People are important. I don't lie about them, because that's what really hurt."

Sarah Carmichael didn't seem to have anything to answer to that... But Peter, him, as he wasn't directly concerned by the conversation, caught what Neal hadn't said. Unlike the blonde, the FBI agent wasn't the one who was wondering whether or not the man he knew was just a legend.

"And you, Neal? What about you?"

The conman gave him an odd look. Peter realized he hadn't taken the question the right way.

"Neal is me. I'm Neal. It's the name my mother gave me... It's who I truly am. Only, Neal puts on a mask too, to hide the pain. Which I know you already knew, Peter. But Neal isn't a mask."

Peter could have done with just this answer, even if it wasn't the right one. But he didn't.

"No, Neal. What I meant was, since you're lying about you, does it mean you aren't important?"

The conman didn't answer.


	9. Judging ( if possible )

**Chapter 9: Judging ( if possible )**

Chuck leaned against the hospital room's door frame almost as soon as he got to Bryce's – Neal Caffrey's. Two NSA gorillas were standing just one meter back, in the corridor, as if Caffrey was going to get anywhere with his broken ankle. Everyone else had gone home or back to the hotel, but Chuck wanted to speak with Bryce before... Before whatever was going to happen to the ever-elusive spy / con artist, happened. Which, from what he knew, wouldn't take long. Casey had said the general had arranged a location and a doctor – in case Neal Caffrey turned out to still be in need of medical assistance. Apparently Beckman would be coming to get the man in one hour, top.

So, yeah, Chuck wanted to speak to Neal Caffrey – and for that, it'd be logical to come in the room, and not stand at the door frame. But Caffrey was trying to get on his feet, despite the fact that one of the two was in a cast. And for now, Bryce – Caffrey – hadn't noticed him yet. Probably because the room was dark, the thief was drowsy with his medicine, and he needed to focus on his less-than-cooperative broken ankle.

So Chuck stood there, leaning against the door frame – watching. Why was Bryce getting up? What was he trying to achieve? Was it just him being stubbornly unable to stay still, even with a broken ankle... or was it something else? How could Chuck tell? He knew nothing about Neal Caffrey. There was no point trying to pretend he had the slightest idea as to what the man's thoughts were.

So Chuck watched, as Neal Caffrey sauntered with difficulty... towards the window. The night was falling, he realized. Someone had drawn the curtain. And Caffrey was holding it, to look at what was happening outside. Chuck wondered if the sky was visible from there – he hadn't paid it much attention, earlier. The lights from outside lit up Caffrey's face. He wasn't smiling, but there still was more emotion in there than the last times he had seen Bryce...

Chuck took a step in the room, and Caffrey turned around to look at him.

"Planning to run?"

He wasn't sure whether it was a quip, or not. It was obvious that no one – not Neal Caffrey, not Bryce Larkin – could outrun the two NSA agents keeping watch at the door with a broken ankle – but Chuck had asked, and it probably meant something more than he had thought, when he had been saying the words.

Caffrey didn't give him the automatic and expected response of slight denial paired up with humor.

He knew very well what Chuck had been implying, perhaps better than Chuck himself knew.

"Where would I go, Chuck? Neal Caffrey doesn't die; he disappears, yes, but he doesn't die. He pretends to, but even when he does, it's not to fool people he cares about. Moreover, it wouldn't be believable a third time around, would it? And there's no point trying to disappear when I'll get the CIA after my ass as a result."

"You could still hide. I'm almost certain you're good enough to never be caught again."

The conman laughed drily, and headed back to his bed – limping, almost falling because of the cast.

"I probably could, Chuck, and perhaps not until the end of my life, but long enough for it to be worth it. But I'd have to lay low, and that, I can't do. I need excitement in my life, perhaps not everyday, perhaps not always, but I need it. Just see how well it turned out, last time I had to stay discreet for a long time: I somehow managed to join the CIA, which got me killed twice, amongst other things. So, as I said, no point running away... And Neal Caffey doesn't die on his friends."

Chuck couldn't stop the question before it was too late.

"But Bryce Larkin does?"

Caffrey didn't even look at him – but, strangely enough, Chuck could see more anger than shame in the man's facial expression.

Wasn't Chuck right, though? Neal Caffrey didn't want to fake his death, this time, but he had been able to do it to cut all ties with Chuck and Sarah? Chuck wasn't even thinking of Caffrey going back to being Bryce Larkin, not after everything the alias had lived through... But the conman could have, at least, contacted them. He could have told them he was alive and well, that he was going to live a better life. Just, you know, that their friend wasn't dead.

"Bryce! Look at me, and answer the damn question!"

The conman eventually looked Chuck in the eyes – and, no doubt, there was a lot of... not anger, no, but perhaps... A lot of resentment in these eyes. Something he wouldn't normally let show, but the medicine was probably hindering his coping mechanisms – thinking that Bryce, of all people, had any, was disturbing. Bryce was the strong one who made all the difficult decisions, who didn't hesitate to make himself look like the villain, if only it allowed him to keep his friends safe.

It made sense, suddenly, why Bryce – why Neal Caffrey had these coping mechanisms. He was the one who never said how he felt, when others always lashed out. He was the one who didn't think there was a point defending himself most of the time. The one who made the difficult choices, and who endured the consequences.

"Why should I, Chuck?"

Whatever medicine the doctor had given him, Neal Caffrey was letting go of some of his rancor.

"You complain that I didn't tell you I was alive... But I don't remember you being so grateful for my first return from death. I don't remember any one of you as having really missed me, the first time. When we saw each other again, the only thing you thought of wasn't 'Great, my friend is alive' but 'Damn, my rival for Sarah's love isn't dead', if I remember right. Even as you knew the truth about the 'end' of our frienship; I made sure you were safe from the CIA, years ago, even if it cost me my only friend, and don't dare tell me it also destroyed your future! Not when you have made a better future for yourself, than Bryce Larkin ever had. Difficult to have a future when you're dead, Chuck. Thanks to me, you weren't. But did you even care that it cost me too, and not only you?"

Before Chuck could even begin to think of an answer, a woman cleared her throat just outside the room. Bryce fell back into neutrality, and greeted the general, his eyes on the wheelchair that had been brought for him. It was time to go.

 **oOo**

Neal rolled his brand new wheelchair with a visible lack of concern towards the table in the middle of the room. Not difficult to deduce where he was supposed to go, considering there was nothing else than the table, a chair for his interrogator, he guessed, and the door in that room. Not even a window.

He discarded the useless reminder of Riggs' condemned windows – no point brooding about that.

He could have done with crutches, but he surmised that counted as weapons – nevermind that he didn't quite see how him and his broken ankle would have run away while the crutches were busy holding off the two NSA guys shadowing his every move. Not that Neal was thinking of running. As he had told Chuck, he wasn't going to run; not when there wasn't a point.

He hadn't left when Mozzie had stolen the treasure, he wasn't going to run now. As he had told his friend at the time, given the circumstances, if he ran, he couldn't come back. Or, at least, he couldn't come back to this life.

He had finally found the one life he wanted – alright, he wasn't saying it was perfect, but it was still better than whatever he had had before. He was doing good things, he still got the thrill from time to time, he used almost all of his skills, and he had friends he knew he could count on for what mattered. Neal Caffrey had found the right balance between the cons and the truth.

He wanted to keep this life.

To his surprise, Diane Beckman was the one who came and sat on the other side of the table.

Neal grinned at her – almost. The cut on his left cheek wasn't making it more than half a smirk, but he was sure the general got it anyway. After all, even with one cheek less, Neal Caffrey was a cheeky one.

"My, General Beckman, I'm honored to see you with me in this room. Are we waiting for more guests, or shall the party begin?"

Beckman gave him a slightly surprised look, which didn't exactly surprise him. Neal Caffrey was cheeky, but Bryce Larkin was all business. The general'd have to get used to it; after all, she wanted to speak to Neal, not to Bryce – to the reality under the mask.

"Neal Caffrey, isn't it? This is obviously a matter of the CIA, but since you also worked for me during the Intersect Project, I'll be one of your interrogators. Your last direct superior at the CIA is on his way, but we will begin without him; Agent Kessler will only have to catch up on the basics."

Because the basics were probably going to last the whole night, since the NSA and the CIA needed to assess him back from the beginning – to see Neal Caffrey without the Larkin mask on. They wanted to see who he was, before going into the details of aaaaall the illegal things he had done.

Which would certainly take a looot longer, but well. Why spoil the fun already, right?

Neal only smiled more at the general – it wasn't a stupid grin anymore, though, but just a slightly amused, partly proud smile. He couldn't pretend he wasn't very happy with himself about his little tricks. Conning the CIA...

But he had to keep his enthusiasm under wraps, because he didn't want to end up in Guantanamo – how he was going to prevent that from happening was yet another question.

A question to which he didn't have an answer yet... But he was starting to have ideas. It'd all depend on how convinced General Beckman and Agent Kessler would be that he was telling the truth, right now. If he played his cards right... If the CIA was agreeable enough to, erm, forget that he hadn't been completely honest with them – right, because that was likely to happen...

In other words, if Neal was extremely good at what he did – which was the case, but it clearly wouldn't suffice – if Neal was extremely lucky – disputable, considering his past; then again, despite everything, he was still alive, so... – if the odds unexpectedly turned around...

Then, perhaps, maybe, possibly he could even get himself in a more comfortable position.

Maybe the tracking anklet would go off too – though, he guessed, if he ended up in jail again, he'd lose the tracker too; but that wasn't the way he had in mind.

General Beckman had her hand on his file – his files, plural; Bryce's and Neal's. She was about to open them, and start his questioning, he could tell.

But something was keeping her from doing it right away.

Beckman looked up from the closed files, back to him. Right in the eyes.

"Before we begin, Agent Larkin..."

She stopped herself, corrected her words.

"...Mr Caffrey. I'd like to ask you, personally, though I guess nothing tells me you won't lie..."

"You can still ask, General, and even listen to my answer. You don't have to believe me for all that."

Yet.

"Fine. My question is simple, really. Just, why?"

Neal's small smile became a smirk, full of mischief, a touch of recklessness, a hint of pride.

"Why not, General Beckman? The real question would be why not."

He could see that she got most of what he meant, and that, that was good enough for now. It meant he had a chance to get out unscathed... mostly unscathed.

"You've made a precarious situation for yourself, Larkin. I hope you know what you're doing."

 **oOo**

Peter was sitting in a waiting room at the office, after Bancroft had told him that General Beckman from the NSA, and CIA Agent Andrew Kessler, both of whom had had Bryce Larkin under their orders when he had allegedly been killed for the second time, wanted to speak to him. He guessed that made sense – they wanted to know who Neal was, since he wasn't Bryce Larkin.

After five minutes, more or less, the door to the private room the two strangers were using at Federal Plaza opened, letting Sarah Carmichael walk out. She and Peter shared a surprised look – but that too made sense.

The former CIA agent had been Neal's – Bryce Larkin's partner. Peter was Neal's.

A petite woman, stern-looking, was standing on the other side of the door. The uniform made it obvious that she was General Diane Beckman.

"Agent Burke, if you'll come in."

Peter hesitated only one instant – wondering, at last, if what he had to say would save Neal or condemn him; or worse, if it wouldn't change a thing at all. Then he followed her, and sat at the table in the middle of the room. A man, Agent Andrew Kessler, he surmised, occupied a chair on the other side – short and curly hair, brown eyes that weren't warm at all, harsh features in a handsome way. Diane Beckman went for the third chair.

The interrogation started with the basics; when and how he had met Neal Caffrey, Neal's lack of violent tendencies, how much Neal had allegedly stolen, if he'd consider money at the price of someone's safety, how Peter had eventually caught him... Neal had made it easy for Peter to make him look good enough, despite an obvious tendency of doing whatever he pleased.

He wasn't a bad guy. He simply didn't play by the same rules as everyone else.

Andrew Kessler perused the two files in his hands, an appreciative glint in his eyes – but perhaps the CIA agent was just impressed by Neal's tricks and boldness on a technical level. Nothing said it was a good thing.

The man looked up and back at Peter.

"How would you describe Neal Caffrey, Agent Burke? On a personal level, not on a professional level. Is he... loyal? Driven by fame, by money? Is he someone you can trust?"

Peter smiled slightly at the question. He wasn't surprised, but Neal was so much more complex than that... With him, everything had to be considered on an particular level.

Like with everyone else, Peter suddenly realized, except that Neal wasn't going along the usual categories, criminal or otherwise.

"Neal... Neal is a dreamer. He wants to do good, but doesn't particularly care for the rules if they are in his way. He can be trusted... only, not with everything. You know how you could trust some gamblers with your life, but you wouldn't give them your money to look after? He's that, even more complicated. He's a conman, but I'd trust him with my life, my money, my house, my wife, my kids if I had any... on the other hand, I know he'll never go by the book, especially not if he wants to defend a friend or an innocent. I don't trust him to play by the rules, to follow the law if there is something important on the line. He'll save a life even if by doing so he undermines the inquiry..."

Peter took a moment to think, and it must have shown on his face, because neither the general nor Kessler interrupted his thinking.

"... I think I might have been a bit unfair with him on those points, as it is. Neal... doesn't care for the letter of the law, though he generally cares for the spirit of the law, but he lives by his loyalties – to his friends, to those who matter, to those who don't deserve, and can't afford what happens to them; as long as they don't do anything too grave, he'll stay loyal to them. More than once, I forced him to choose, and it never ended well."

Not that Peter believed he had been completely wrong these times, but now that he thought about it... Perhaps the way he had gone about it hadn't helped at all.

"If I had to choose a few words to qualify Neal... He's loyal, unrepentant when he thinks he's in the right, charming, very clever, unsure of his own worth, self-destructive at times. He's a challenger, too; he does things because he's told no one can. He pretends he doesn't care, but it's a lie. He doesn't show it, because he'd rather people blamed him for not caring than pitied him. He's... he makes himself look like a child, because he'd like to still be one, to forget the pain."

Peter knew Neal very well. All this, he had thought it, more or less clearly, at some point during the last five years, as Neal's secrets unravelled.

And still, Peter wasn't able, when it really mattered, to take it into account. How many times had he blamed Neal, not even for his choices, but for a situation the conman hadn't even started? How many times had he asked the younger man to "be a man"... when it was obvious that Neal was always trying to do the best he could, even if Peter didn't approve of his methods?

It wasn't the time to think about that, though. Now was the time to do the best he could so that Neal didn't end up in Guantanamo... or worse.

Agent Kessler took a look at his notes from Sarah Carmichael's interview.

"Sarah Carmichael described Bryce Larkin as a self-sacrifial overachiever. Do you think that also applies to Caffrey?"

Peter's upper lip twisted a bit.

"Still considering that Neal probably couln't display any levity under the mask of Bryce Larkin... Yes. That's Neal, when you take off the veneer of happiness."


	10. Winning ( on all sides )

_Please make sure you've read chapter 9, because I've had issues with the site, and I'm not sure if the updates showed, even though they were there. If you did, then enjoy chapter 10 ;D_

* * *

 _So, here comes the last chapter._  
 _Of course, the way I'm saving Neal's ass from Guantanamo ( with what he gets on top, but I'm not revealing that yet ) is problably unlikely, but it's really the only solution for a happy ending I could see._

 _Now, I don't beg for reviews, but this is the end, and I'd appreciate if you could leave a final review, even more so if you've never done that on the other chapters, and you still appreciated the story. Your choice._

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Winning ( on all sides )**

A few months had passed since the rather surprising events in New York – almost one year in fact – when Chuck received news from Neal Caffrey. Or rather, when General Beckman sent everyone a postcard via Casey, who was still grumbling at being used as an errand boy. Bryce hadn't contacted them, not even once, after their departure – at least, not directly. Agent Burke sent them reports on the conman's health, at first, on how the interviews were going.

It seemed Caffrey really was a sweet talker, because what was first profiling as an accusation of treason had slowly, but surely, turned into thanks for service rendered to his country, to the Agency, to... well. Enough that Caffrey had bought his freedom with it, apparently.

Even more than that, the particular circumstances of Neal Caffrey's legal situation and the silver tongue of the man had gotten him yet another thing: Caffrey still had one official identity that was completely clean – he wasn't going anywhere near "Neal Bennett", whom the Washington irish mob might still be targeting, anyway, but "Danny Brooks" on the other hand... And somehow things had been arranged – Sarah still couldn't believe it, even if she had been told nearly six months ago.

It was a bit more than unbelievable, to be frank.

Casey waved the postcard angrily at Chuck, who was trying to evade the irate attacks while bringing a drink to his very pregnant wife – and if the little boy in there ended up being called Bryce, well, Caffrey didn't need to know, right? He'd find out if and when he decided to come around. Which would happen eventually, Chuck was certain, if Sarah and him made it clear they wanted to know Neal Caffrey too, not just the mask of Bryce. If they made it clear that they were willing to move forward in their friendship.

"No, but, do you believe that, Bartowski? The man is a criminal, and he gets that kind of chance? How do you even go from con artist to FBI agent? Oh, right, with a pardon! A pardon that's not even official, since, you know, 'Brooks' never did a thing under this name!"

Chuck had to admit, even if Caffrey officially went by his WITSEC name now – he had kept his first name, though, changing it back legally, for once – he still had the same face as the one on his old wanted posters – not that the posters were half as charming as the man himself, and they were a few years old now. Even if it happened that people could look uncannily like other people without even being related, it'd be interesting to see if anyone realized what was going on.

The computer nerd handed the glass of water to his wife, just as she gave Casey – Casey, Caffrey, how had he not noticed it before? Not that it meant anything, but still – a dark look.

"And how did he go from conman to one of the best CIA agents? He also worked for the FBI for five years already, and they like him a lot. It was obvious they'd want to keep him. Bryce died twice for the Agency, Casey. And Caffrey never killed anyone when not working for the CIA, nor did he do anything remotely grave or endangering to national security. It's not as if they were allowing a repentant terrorist to enter the FBI. Moreover, everything about Neal Caffrey is so legally blurred, and everything about Bryce Larkin is so CIA-shadowed, that it's not as if 'Neal Brooks' can officially be linked to his other aliases... which will certainly be very useful to the FBI, as it is."

Casey growled something under his breath, as his grandson ran all over the room – being a grandfather was tough on him, but the NSA agent surely was proving very useful at containing the brat when needed.

Sarah raised her eyebrows at him.

"Do I need to remind you how many 'special circumstances' we've got, ourselves, to officially erase what we did when things went South because of Fulcrum, of the Ring, of Volkoff and of Daniel Shaw? I remember you stealing from the government, once, and yet you're still here, aren't you? So, what were you saying?"

Casey squinted at the blonde meaningfully.

"Just that it helped when someone conveniently lost the samples of Neal Caffrey's and Bryce Larkin's DNA in all databases, Walker. Nothing more."

Chuck, who was turning pancakes upside down, looked up, a slightly guiltily pink look on his face.

"Someone did that? Wonder how it happened..."

Casey drawled, just as he got his hands on Nathan before the kid could run into a wall – Morgan's genes, the colonel assured, and Chuck was inclined to believe him, with his Grimes-experience.

"Apparently there was a system failure, and because of that all the samples were wrongfully ordered for destruction, as well as all the files on the matter."

Chuck pointedly avoided to look at Casey – he had to focus on the pancakes, remember?

Sarah sighed – even if she had found actual reasons for Neal Caffrey's turn of luck, she still had a hard time believing it. Though, she was happy Bryce could still have a life, even after everything.

"He's still angry at us, isn't he?"

It semeed obvious, considering Beckman had been the one to inform them that Caffrey – Brooks had just successfully finished Quantico. Not exactly a shock, considering the man's past, and the fact he had already successfully passed the Farm's training – not the same thing, but good enough to evaluate his skills. He was now heading back to Manhattan – years of seniority, even when he hadn't actually been an agent, seemed to still count for his preferred choices. Then again, perhaps the reason was simply that though the FBI wanted Caffrey back, they still trusted him better when working with Peter Burke and the rest of his old team.

"More likely that he's being prideful and / or unsure we want anything to do with him. Don't worry, Walker, Larkin'll get back to you two... eventually."

Morgan opened the door to the bathroom, where he had disappeared earlier, and groaned as he saw the others' faces.

"Oh come on, can't you stop talking about Chuck's former-best-friend-n°2 for just one morning?"

"What do you want me to say, Morgan? It's not everyday a friend comes back from the dead."

"Maybe, but with Larkin, it sure does seem like it's everyday..."

 **oOo**

Neal looked around Kyle Bancroft's office, curiously polite, as his actually-though-not-exactly new superior held his face in his hands.

"I still don't know how the Bureau could go with this, Caffrey..."

Neal gave him a smile full of charm – and perhaps some cheekiness too.

"I'm not the one who's going to complain, Sir."

"You don't say... Ah, hell, let's just roll with it! But I'm warning you, Caffrey; if anything happen, I'm not sticking my head for you, so you'd better stay in line. I won't defend you, and you shouldn't ask that of your partner either, except if it's blatantly obvious you didn't do anything and people are just trying to get rid of you. Which would be ironic enough, considering the lengths the Bureau has proven they'd go to to keep you, but either way..."

Neal wasn't stupid, and knew very well that because his credentials now said "Neal Brooks", it didn't mean everyone would just forget who he was – even if they couldn't prove it in court, they knew. There would probably be a few people who'd try to get rid of him – for the FBI, for their own gain, your pick, both reasons were possible, and he wouldn't be surprised if some of these people did it for both reasons. Bringing him down with sufficient evidence – not that he would leave anything like that behind him, but some people might fabricate proofs just because they didn't like him – would probably propulse their career – unless it ended it, but that, that was double or quits, depending on who they brought the evidence to; someone who wanted to keep Neal Caffrey at hand, or someone who wanted rid of him.

Bancroft pushed the gun, the FBI badge, and the credentials across his desk, towards Neal, who eyed the weapon distastefully; he might have used one as Bryce Larkin, and he was damn good at it too, but he still wasn't going to wave it around unless necessary. Bancroft didn't let go of the three items yet, though.

"They like you, Caffrey, Larkin, Brooks, whoever you are, but it doesn't mean they won't keep an eye on you."

Neal smiled genially at his superior – there was a hint of cold awareness hidden underneath, though, as well as a glint of challenge.

"They can try, Sir, but they won't find a thing."

Or at least, not anything worth risking the wrath of those who wanted him right where he was now. Neal wasn't just going to become a model agent when there were funnier and better ways to do his job – he'd just have to be careful whenever he'd go somewhere slightly grey. The FBI had know that, when they had agreed to his idea; he was a former conman, after all, and a former CIA agent. They couldn't just expect him to suddenly become the most law-abiding citizen in the USA.

As long as he stayed discreet, it'd be alright.

And anyway, it wasn't as if even the usual FBI agents never made peculiar choices either, without it meaning they were corrupt or anything like that.

Bancroft let go, and Neal pocketed the credentials, put the badge on his belt, and made the gun disappear under his suit jacket – incredible, really, what you could make look like it wasn't even there, with the right training; Peter'd never get it.

"Well, then, Sir, I should go down to White Collar. I'm sure Peter has a lot of mortgage fraud cases waiting specially for me down there."

If there was one thing Neal dreaded even when he had first given the idea, it was suddenly being the probie even in his own unit. Diana and Jones, not to say Peter, would probably take every chance to remind him he officially was a rookie.

He'd deal with it – as long as it didn't last more than one year, then he'd get annoyed at them.

Except if they also treated him like an idiot, or rather, like a probie in the sense that probies, despite just getting out of Quantico, don't actually know how things work.

"One moment, Caffrey."

Neal stopped, hand on the door knob, and turned back to his new boss.

"Sir?"

Bancroft looked him in the eyes, as if to make sure he was fully grasping what the man was about to say. To make sure Neal wouldn't just blow it all to hell in less than a month. Or worse, a week.

"It's an incredible chance you got there, and even though I'm not allowed to see what you did for the CIA, I still know what you did for this office, and I'm almost certain you deserve it. Now, whenever someone calls you, except if you are undercover, which you will probably do a lot of, you'll be Neal Brooks. I'm calling you Brooks, from now on, and so should all your colleagues who are not calling you by your first name. Solve cases, do your thing, I don't care, as long as you're not caught. And, please, no more funny business. I'll look away whenever you do something a bit... particular on a case, but not for something blatantly illegal."

"No disappearing nazi treasure, no stolen music box, got it."

"I'm serious. If there's even one thing that goes askew, and I know it, you can be sure they'll know too. And then, I wouldn't be surprised if you ended up in Guantanamo. Even for a stolen pen."

Well, maybe that was exaggerating a bit, but Neal got the idea.

"Understood, Brooks?"

"Understood, Sir."

 **oOo**

Jones stood – or really, sat on his desk, but that didn't seem very professional – by the entrance, staring at the glass doors, with Diana. They knew that, any minute now, Neal would walk back in, after ten months away. Three months recovering, yet a few more completing his debriefing – the CIA really was a pain in the ass for that, it seemed, but they guessed that with what Neal had done, it wasn't so surprising – and taking care of the virus he had used to separate himself from his Bryce Larkin identity on the servers, then five months at Quantico.

Neal would walk back in, with a gun, a badge, and FBI agent credentials. Jones was more than a bit disturbed by the idea.

Diana too, for the matter. And let's not talk about Peter.

"At least we can be sure he won't be the kind of guy who just wave his gun around at any occasion..."

"You sure about that? He was a CIA agent, and from what I gathered, he already killed on duty."

She gave him a disbelieving look – not about the killing bit. Jones didn't take it personally. He himself wasn't believing his own words. But he had felt someone had to say it nonetheless.

"He's Neal, no matter his past. I bet you we'll have to force him to use his gun most of the time."

"Not taking that bet, Diana."

Someone coughed lightly next to them, and the two agents jumped slightly.

Neal was there, smiling at them, and everyone in the office except them – not anymore, though – was already staring at him, unsure whether they should greet him – they were happy to see him again, no doubt about that – or just stay bemused at the scene. The two couldn't believe it; they had looked away from the doors for what, twenty seconds perhaps, in two hours, and Neal arrived just at that moment?

If they didn't know how impatient he could be, they'd think he had waited in a dark corner just to startle them.

"Happy to see you too, guys."

Jones and Diana exchanged a glance, decided they could well get rid of the awkwardness, and probably scared Neal to no end by hugging him successively without warning.

"What? We haven't seen you in months, Neal. And I still remember you clearly, lying in a hospital bed with cuts and bruises all over your body."

The returnee shrugged – Jones tilted his head to the side.

"You didn't go to see Bancroft yet? I thought they had decided he'd be the one to greet you back, for whatever confidential and particular-to-your-case-only reasons they have."

"I saw him. Why do you ask?"

"I don't see your gun or your badge."

Ah, that was certainly weird to say about Neal. Jones guessed he'd get used to it. One day. Perhaps.

Neal opened his jacket – grey, very neat and stylish, he had definitely gone back to June's, and no one would ever think he was a FBI agent, but Diana guessed that was part of Neal... The badge was there, at his waist. He turned around a bit, lifting the jacket pan, and miracle, the gun was here too.

"How did you..."

"It all depends on the vest you're wearing, how you stand, how you behave."

Diana squinted at the conman – retired, perhaps, but still a conman; and he'd have to be one, even if for the FBI. They wanted Neal for various reasons, and going undercover was one of them.

"Or you're a magician."

He didn't seem to disagree, and smiled at her just before turning around – and finding himself facing Peter before the ASAC could even tell them he was there. The older agent looked shocked; he obviously had forgotten what it was like to work with the ever elusive Neal Caffrey during the last month.

"Or that. Hey, Peter. Happy to see me?"

After a floating moment of nothing-to-say, Peter took a step back – he had been about to pat Neal on the shoulder and greet him, but now they were a bit too close to one another for his liking. And Neal was evidently too happy with having surprised him to care.

"Welcome back, Neal."

Peter's eyes went down to the badge on his former CI's belt – never thought he'd see that, even after the news that Neal was going to Quantico; then again, who'd have thought his harmless best friend had been a very successful CIA agent in another life?

"Or, should I say, Agent Brooks."

"Still your best friend, Peter. I'm not going to call you Boss."

Peter suddenly wanted to rip that smuggle little face off, but it'd have to wait.

"Any news from your friends in Burbanks?"

Neal avoided to look at him, and shrugged. But Peter knew his partner had been the one to ask a certain general to send the news that he was back in duty, so he could tell that, one day, Neal'd get over whatever it was that was keeping him away from his other friends.

Meanwhile...

"Alright, Probie, time to get to work. I've left mortgage frauds on your desk."


End file.
